


collision

by vipereyed



Series: invisible splendors and intangible delights [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Black Hermione Granger, Desi Harry Potter, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, POV Alternating, Past Drug Use, Potioneer Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-10-15 11:12:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17527646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vipereyed/pseuds/vipereyed
Summary: Between a breakup, a complicated case, and having Malfoy waltz in from France to be his consultant for mentioned case, Harry doesn't think his life can get any more frustrating. But, of course, things can only go up from here.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi everyone! i've been working on this fic for awhile now. it is part of a series - if you would like to get a better understanding of draco, and what caused him to leave london, you can read the other work in this series - "the ecstasy of loneliness" - although it's not hugely necessary, as some parts of this fic will reference it, specifically draco's past drug usage. i hope you enjoy <3

“The human heart is like a night bird. Silently waiting for something, and when the time comes, it flies straight toward it.”

—  **Haruki Murakami**

 _Taste of Agra_ is always busy on a Saturday, and today is no exception. The steady thrums of the conversations around him are almost imperceptible to Harry, the only noise breaking through the threshold of his consciousness being the steady _tap tap tapping_ of his fingers against the burgundy tablecloth. It’s scratchy and worn beneath his calloused fingertips, but he can’t bring himself to care; Taste of Agra has always been one of his favourite haunts in London, and it being Muggle has just added to the charm. It’s rather nice to venture out into a world where he’s completely normal to the point of being ignored. There’s a sort of comfort in being just another face on the street as opposed to the Saviour of a whole world. It’s a role that Harry’s never really grown into, if he’s being honest with himself. 

The sharp, savory smell of garlic invades his nostrils as Gita – his usual waitress on the weekends – places a basket of garlic naan in front of him on the table. Harry smiles at her in thanks and her eyes pointedly rove over to the empty seat across from him before she pastes on a sympathetic smile. He almost wants to tell her that he hasn’t been stood up, but he reckons that’s exactly what someone who _is_ being stood up would say, and so he keeps his mouth shut. It could be worse; this could be in wizarding London and end up as front page fodder for the world to see. Not that he’s being stood up, of course. Oliver is simply, predictably, late as always. A quick check of his watch tells him that his boyfriend is quickly approaching fifteen minutes tardy this time. 

The realization that he likes both birds and blokes was shocking to Harry when it came to him sometime halfway during his Eighth Year. Terry Boot had been the star of many of his daydreams and night wanks that year, much to Harry’s surprise, but he never really gave it much thought prior to that. That was the result of having a madman trying to kill you during most of your formative years – it didn’t leave much time for normal adolescent experiences and experimenting.  In hindsight, his feelings towards Cedric Diggory and Oliver Wood made much more sense, though Harry’d chalked it up to admiration at the time. Ron and Hermione had exchanged a silent look with each other when Harry’d came out to them, with Hermione admitting that she “had suspicions”. They stuck by him through anything, of course; fighting a war with each other and ending up in near-death situations together tends to do that to people.

Harry casts a wandless heating charm on the bread in front of him, hoping for it to stay warm until Oliver arrives. Sometimes he can’t believe the way life works out – he’s dating Oliver Wood, for Merlin’s sake! Beyond that, Oliver Wood likes blokes! When Harry’d confessed, under the influence of more than one glass of firewhiskey, his disbelief of such a fact to Hermione, she’d merely pursed her lips and shook her head at his obliviousness, muttering an “Oh, Harry.” Afterwards she’d pressed him to make sure that this relationship wasn’t some latent form of hero-worship. Harry didn’t – and still doesn’t – think it would be appropriate to divulge just how much his body apparently wanted to _worship_ Wood since their school days. Their relationship is young yet – only five months in – and Harry doesn’t know if he can see himself being with Oliver forever. It’s nice, and it’s comforting, though different from the comfort of being with Ginny. His boyfriend’s schedule prevents them from seeing each other often and Harry sometimes finds himself wishing they could talk more, preferably about topics other than Quidditch. A voice in his mind that sounds an awful lot like Hermione tells him that he is only twenty-three, and he deserves to engage in the normal experiences that he was deprived of for so long, such as dating, even if it’s not meant to last forever.

The hanging bell above the door chimes, signaling someone’s entered the restaurant. Harry smiles as he meets the eyes of his tall, muscular boyfriend, warmth flooding through his chest as Oliver grins back and heads over to their table. He’s been gone for almost three weeks this time to train and play in Portugal, and the sun has been kind to him. Oliver’s skin has been browned by it so that he’s a few shades lighter than Harry’s golden complexion, and he looks like a walking Adonis. Harry feels a surge of pride shoot through him at the fact that the man across from him is _his._

“Oi, you’re late,” he teases by way of greeting. Harry reaches for a piece of naan and finds to his relief it’s still hot as he tears into it, the taste of garlic and other spices flooding his mouth.

Oliver gives a sheepish shrug as a sun-tanned arm comes up to rub the back of his neck. He’s wearing muggle clothes, and his muscular form shows through his tight black jumper. “I may have gotten caught up with practice and missed the portkey.” Harry knows what he’s not saying – that the rest of Puddlemere definitely missed it too then – and shakes his head fondly. He remembers Oliver as his Quidditch captain during a time that feels like a lifetime ago, remembers the rigorous training and strict schedule he kept them to and now expects his own team to follow. “Merlin, I’m bloody famished.”

Harry smiles again at his boyfriend as he watches Oliver take some naan for himself. He’s feeling a bit peckish too and he looks around for Gita, who is nowhere to be found. He doesn’t mind, though – more time to be had with Oliver. He rests his elbows on the table, his white v-neck contrasting against the deep burgundy of the tablecloth. “So how was Portugal? ‘Mione told me all about the tourist attractions there, the wizarding and muggle ones. I didn’t think you had the chance to see them though.” Harry can’t really recall what half of those attractions are, as he’d zoned out after listening to the history of numerous Portuguese castles.

Oliver returns the smile, but there’s something missing from it. It doesn’t reach his eyes the way his smiles normally do, when his cheeks dimple and his warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners. Even so the effect is still dazzling, despite the ripple of anxiety it sends through Harry. “Portugal was _brill_ ,” he breathes out, and Harry fights back a grin at the dreaminess still present in Oliver’s eyes, as though he’s replaying the memories right now. “I fell in love with it while I was there, Harry. You’ve got to see it whenever you’ve the chance. The beaches, the clubs, the people – it’s amazing, all of it. Reckon I’ll definitely be back soon.”

Harry reaches out to place his hand on top of Oliver’s. “How long will you be staying this time? Maybe we could go together.” He frowns when Oliver retracts his hand to run a hand through his hair in what Harry knows is a nervous habit.

Oliver clears his throat, making Harry’s frown deepen, and causing the alarm bells to start ringing in his head. “There’s actually something I need to talk to you about,” he sighs and picks at a loose string in the tablecloth. “I actually, er, met someone in Portugal. I should have told you earlier but I very well couldn’t have sent an owl about that, could I? I figured I owed it to you to tell you in person.”

With Oliver’s schedule, Harry’s always known that him meeting someone else was always a possibility. He’s also known that, despite their relationship being exclusive, at five months in it hardly remains serious. They’ve never even exchanged an “I love you” yet, though Harry’d chalked it up to waiting for the right time. Still, being broken up with is hardly a pleasant feeling. Memories of his breakup with Ginny start to flood his mind, unbidden and eerily reminiscent, her breaking up with him over butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks. He’s suddenly reminded of the feeling of loss, of having yet another person leave him, and he feels eighteen again rather than twenty three.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.” Harry knows the apology is sincere, knows that Oliver genuinely feels bad. He can feel the other man giving his hand a gentle pat, and he shakes his head.

“Right,” he says stiffly, before forcing a smile on his lips. He fishes some muggle bills out of his wallet and leaves them on the table. “I’m not upset, Oliver,” and it’s not a lie, really. He isn’t. He just needs a drink, and badly. “I—I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Oliver blinks at him in bemusement before giving a wry smile of his own. “’Course, Harry. Be well. And this better not make you cheer for the Cannons. You might think I’m a prat right now, but we’ll always best them.”

Harry gives one last forced chuckle before abruptly heading out of _Taste of Agra_ , already knowing where he needs to go to forget all about this shit night.

*

 _Baciami_ is one of the newest bars that line Knockturn Alley and is a favorite among younger wizarding folk. Harry is no exception – the bar is contemporary in a way that most wizarding buildings aren’t and plays a wide array of muggle and magical music artists. It’s not quite eleven yet either, making the bar mostly empty save for a few who are there to pre-game or drown their sorrows like Harry is. He doesn’t mind – the emptier the bar the better, and the less likely of possibilities such as people approaching him to ask for his autograph or to thank him. He seats himself on one of the cool leather stools of the bar next to a witch around his age to deep in conversation with her friend at the stool next to her to notice him. A witch he vaguely remembers from Hogwarts – her name might be Tracey, he tries to recall a bit desperately – is working the bar tonight. The multicolored disco lights dance across her face, bathing her in shades of blue, green, and purple.  The club’s been open for months now, and Harry still can’t quite get over that one of his favored nightlife attractions happens to be owned by Blaise Zabini.

“Take your time,” Maybe-Tracey tells him before turning her attention back to one of the other bar patrons.

Harry waves his hand for her attention, and gives her an awkward smile when she approaches. “Er, d’you know how to make a Diagon Alley iced tea?”

Maybe-Tracey snorts, drumming a red fingernail against the black, polished surface of the bar. “I work here, don’t I?”  Harry curses himself for not being better with words, but then again, anyone would be a little off after the day he’s had. He deserves this drink, he tells himself.

Three Diagon iced teas later and the world is beginning to be seen through the hazy veil of drunkenness. The bar is starting to fill now, and a disco ball emerges from the ceiling to hover above the dance floor, pixies flying around it.

 Dancing is an activity that Harry loves when he’s drunk. The alcohol loosens his muscles from the permanent tension that seems to have seeped into him permanently since, well, forever; under the flashing lights, packed against a sea of sweaty, intoxicated bodies, no one cares who he is. For a moment he can forget all about being Harry Potter and the burdens that accompany such an existence.

He pushes his way out of the dance floor and back to the bar to order a pint. He’ll have a wicked hangover tomorrow, but he’s off this weekend, thank Merlin. It’s not that he hates his job; he just…doesn’t love it. Becoming an Auror was always what was expected of him and Harry had thought it seemed good enough of a career prospect when he was fifteen and didn’t expect to live to have a career. Now that he’s actually working as one, though, he finds it rather tedious. Robards is a great Head Auror, but once you kill one of the most powerful dark wizards of the century, anything less tends to be boring. Besides, Harry doesn’t know if he wants to spend his whole life chasing dark wizards – it seems rather bleak, and the possibility of dying isn’t one he meets with a resigned acceptance anymore. He quite likes his life these days, for the most part.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Harry stills instantly, that voice cutting through him like a knife. Even over the pulse of the music, he’d recognize _that voice_ anywhere.

Draco Malfoy sits perched on the bar stool next to him, looking elegant even sat on a bloody stool. Harry wants to marvel at the unfairness of it, but is too busy trying to get over the shock of seeing Malfoy again. He hasn’t seen him since after the Battle, at the Malfoy trials, when they were both eighteen.  The Malfoy heir left England not long after that, though Harry didn’t know where he’d gone. He’d stopped asking Ron and Hermione if they heard anything, as Ron had groaned and warned him “not to go obsessing over Malfoy again”. Which even now Harry still feels is an unfair assumption to make. Wondering where someone is doesn’t constitute obsession.

The Malfoy sat next to him remains changed and yet unchanged. His face is more angular than pointy, and he’s slim but Harry can see that he isn’t scrawny, but fit. His silver-blond hair remains styled as always and reaches his shoulders, reminding Harry unwillingly of Lucius Malfoy, if he were to ever step foot in a nightclub. Malfoy regards Harry with that same smug, arrogant expression he’s always favored.

Merlin almighty, this whole evening has just been making Harry feel eighteen again. He doesn’t enjoy it.

“Malfoy?” Harry squints at the other man, just to make sure he hasn’t had too much to drink. He’ll never live it down if he’s in a bar owned by _Blaise Zabini_ and calling a random blond man Malfoy. Zabini and the papers will make sure of that.

Malfoy regards him with cool amusement as he lifts his pint to his lips and takes a hearty swig. “Yes, Potter, it’s me. Eloquent in your observations as ever, I see.”

Harry rolls his eyes. There’s no polite way to word the question he wants to ask, and if there is one his intoxicated brain can’t think of it. He’s never been polite to Malfoy anyway, so he settles on, “Why’re you back? You fucked off, what, five years ago?”

Malfoy raises an elegant, pale eyebrow. “Keeping tabs on me, Potter?” His lips twitch into that annoyingly familiar smirk, and Harry’s stomach lurches for some reason.

“Don’t flatter yourself Malfoy.”

“Not that it would surprise me, really,” Malfoy drawls, brushing invisible lint off of his slacks. Piercing grey eyes consider Harry and the blond makes a sympathetic noise in mocking. “I’d imagine you have nothing better to do. After all, you must have been terribly bored, what with Wood prancing about in Portugal with Vasco Santini.”

Harry could feel his blood run cold. “What?” He grits out, feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline building, the adrenaline that so often accompanied a fight, verbal or physical and most often both, with Malfoy. This night really is shaping up to be a fest of nostalgia for his teen years.

Malfoy tuts once again in false sympathy, his face arranging into the usual sneer. “Oh, I was under the impression that you knew. Pity. The French papers have been reporting on it for a few weeks now. I read it in _Page Six_ last week my—“

And then, because Harry’s never had much sense of self control, and has always been especially impulsive  when it comes to Malfoy, he does something he’s done countless times before: he punches him, his fist slamming into that pale, angular jaw. He knows he’ll regret it in the morning but it’s gratifying in the moment, if not for the spike of adrenaline that flows through him and the way Malfoy falls off of the stool.

The former Slytherin lets out a sharp cry before he’s on his feet, growling with his teeth bared like a rabid dog. He’s lunging towards Harry, knocking over a barstool in the process, and Harry braces for the impact, adrenaline rushing through his veins and blood pumping in his ears. Some part of him, long hidden and long buried, deeply missed this. Fighting with Malfoy has always been a dance they both fall into with ease.

The seemingly-impending impact never comes. Instead the _crack_ of apparition materializes over the music, distracting absolutely no one except for the two of them. Harry blinks stupidly as a spicy cologne floods his nostrils and through the haze of alcohol, takes in Blaise Zabini standing between him and Malfoy, effectively ending anything before it began.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Draco?” Harry doesn’t know how he can hear Zabini’s deep, smooth voice over the music – it must be magic of course, but he’s too drunk to care – but he does know that Zabini’s hand is gripping his collar. His and Malfoy’s, apparently, as Zabini is striding hurriedly towards the exit with what looks like two bouncers accompanying him. At some point Zabini must have relinquished control of Harry to the bouncer, a giant of a man who holds him none too gently.

Malfoy doesn’t say anything except let out a very inelegant grunt, grey eyes rolling. “Right. Well as much as I know that this practically constitutes as foreplay for you two—“ Harry lets out an indignant cry but Zabini doesn’t do so much as glance his way, “I’m afraid that I’m going to have to ask you two gentlemen to leave.” 

People have started to notice now, some watching with the awestruck stare that accompanies intoxication, others observing with rapt, sober interest. The Saviour and the Death Eater fighting – or doing something illicit, to be kicked out of a club like so. Being in the press for almost a decade now, Harry knows that this will definitely make it to the _Prophet_ tomorrow. He just hopes that Skeeter won’t cover it, and that it will be a mere blurb rather than the front headline. It’s wishful thinking but hope springs eternal.

The hot, sweat-and-sex filled atmosphere of _Baciami_ becomes replaced by the cold night air of Knockturn (with an undercurrent of sex, because it _is_ Knockturn) as the bouncer unceremoniously shoves him out. Harry stumbles and almost falls, gripping the wall far too late as the world spins around him while he attempts to situate himself in an almost-sitting position. Malfoy, he notes with glee, stumbles as well but rights himself the way Harry should have – and would have, had he been sober.

Knockturn isn’t quiet by any means – there are drunken witches and wizards stumbling out of the pubs that line the street and people going in and out of the apartments housed above closed stores – but the atmosphere is thick with tension and despite the noises surrounding them, it’s far too quiet between them. Malfoy is probably angry but his face predictably gives nothing away; at some point during the scuffle it shuttered back into the place of its usual blank yet haughty expression. Harry secretly prefers him angry, or sneering, anything but that cool mask which reminds him too much of Malfoy immediately post-war, where he looked like a walking Inferi.

Not that he would ever admit it. ‘Preference’ is an odd word, anyway, and he doesn’t have any preference for Malfoy – it’s just nice to see the git not look half-dead.

He shakes his head at the thought, still in place at his spot on the cobblestone floor. The idea that Malfoy was, is, or ever will be up to something has long since left his mind but he still observes the other man, brow furrowing as pale fingers fish what looks like a Muggle cigarette out of black trousers.  Harry wants to say something but once again words have eluded him as he doesn’t know what, exactly, to say. ‘I didn’t know you smoked’ is too intimate and will likely only start an argument. If he was on a friendly basis with Malfoy, or even pleasantly acquainted, he would crack jokes and bet on what the headline tomorrow would be regarding them. Something tells him that the blonde won’t appreciate that either.

There’s a sudden flash, so bright against the darkness that Harry briefly thinks he might be blinded. “Malf—“ he begins, but stops at the sudden paleness of Malfoy’s pinched features. Malfoy’s gone rigid and is muttering swears under his breath as he stomps out the lit end of the cigarette with what are no doubt very expensive shoes. Another loud _CRACK_ fills the air and it takes a moment for Harry to realize Malfoy’s Disapparated somewhere.

Panic wells up in him suddenly, his stomach clenching as he goes through several scenarios, each one worse than the previous. Surely Malfoy wouldn’t abandon him here, intoxicated, in the face of an enemy? Harry knows that he’d committed some unsavory acts during the war but certainly leaving the Hero of the Wizarding World unattended in the hopes that said hero would face the dark wizard alone would be frowned upon. It would, at the very least, undo any and all progress that the Malfoy’s have made in attempts to clear their name and reputation. Harry slides a hand into his pocket and grips his wand there as he forces himself up, thankful for the realization that anxiety works wonders at sobering one up. Slowly, his Auror training and skills begin to come back to him as he casts his eyes around the street. Immediately, he notices what sent Malfoy off like that.

A wizard in ornate purple robes stands across from them, attempting to hide in the shadows of the alley. There’s a camera in one hand and a leash attached to a small dog in the other, which Harry immediately understands is no true dog,  if Rita Skeeter is anything to go by. The wizard was clearly banking on not being noticed and he might even have been successful, had Malfoy and Harry not endured a war. Nothing like a war to heighten the senses.

“Hey!” Harry calls out into the night, ignoring the various faces turning his way in confusion. The reporter by the alley stills, and for a single unrealistic moment Harry thinks he’s won – that the reporter will just go home – but then his large hands reach for the camera again and there’s another blinding flash followed by an ear-splitting pop before he and his not-dog companion are gone. Harry groans in frustration, leaning his head against the cool brick of the building behind him. If Hermione was here, she would have been smart enough to _accio_ the camera away. More than that, if Hermione was here his chances of getting into a club fight with fucking Malfoy would have been practically nonexistent.

For a moment, Harry almost wishes that it was a dark wizard instead of the reporter. They sometimes could even make Voldemort look like the lesser of two evils.


	2. Chapter 2

“All I want is silence, for myself and for the selves I used to be.”

**-Alejandra Pizarnik**

 Having been back in England for a little over three days, Draco can already feel the regret starting to coil in his stomach at the decision.  

First there was the god-awful experience of traveling. Draco hadn’t actually returned from France to England since he was a teenager, the last time being prior to the Occupation of the Manor, back when he cared for little other than himself and thus paid no attention to how they were coming or leaving from their splendid vacations. He’d cursed his younger self for not remembering France’s strict travel laws as he waited on the long line of the portkey checkpoint, sandwiched between a wizard who smelled of body odour and a witch who seemed to have bathed in an entire bottle of perfume. Evidently he also had forgotten the nausea that accompanied traveling by portkey as he promptly vomited as he arrived in his London flat, much to the distress of Basil, his elf. It really was a marvel on his self-control that he didn’t Apparate regardless, but having avoided Azkaban for war crimes was lucky. Getting tried for disobeying international traveling laws or similar bollocks would be pushing that luck.

Then, worse than the traveling experience, was meeting Potter in Blaise’s club. Goading Potter has always come easily to Draco to the point where he does it without much thought. Accompanying that is the ever-present thrill that it brings, knowing that he can push Potter to the edge with so little effort – something that, to his knowledge, no one else is capable of quite the way Draco is. He hadn’t counted on Potter _punching_ him like they were in a common pub fight though, nor had he expected to get papped by the _Prophet_ ; a mistake in and of itself since the press practically kisses the ground Potter walks on. Getting punched by Potter is an act humiliating enough to damper the thrill that comes with antagonizing him, it turns out. To make matters worse – or better, as Draco likes to think – his subscription to the _Prophet_ is nonexistent, rendering him oblivious as to whether the unflattering photos have been published to an equally slanderous article. He won’t lower himself to purchasing a copy of the rubbish news just to check if it made the front page, though. He won’t.

And now, as Draco runs about his flat like a Hippogriff in a china shop, he’s hit with the realization that he is running five minutes behind schedule. Five minutes which do not seem like many in the grand scheme of things, but which have the potential to add up to ten, twenty, _thirty_ —

Draco shakes his head to dispel such anxieties as he finishes the last of his buttons on his starched white dress shirt before a simple flourish of his wand has his ebony dress robes floating towards him, waiting for him to shrug into them.

Air fills his lungs as he inhales deeply. It’s part of the breathing exercises that he learned from his former Mind-Healer while in France, and whether it’s placebo or not, it works wonders. Even the tension in his stomach seems to loosen, returning his nerves back to their desired, steady state. Perhaps, whether everything will work out or not, all he can do about his time back in London is make the best of it.

*

The mantra of “making the best of it” lasts approximately thirty minutes, right up until Draco finds himself in the shabby telephone box. It rapidly disintegrates right as he finishes dialing the ‘2’ in 62442 and the disembodied voice speaks on the other end, suddenly making this all the more real.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

“Draco Malfoy. Meeting with Head Auror Robards.” His parents have made a lot of mistakes, but as he thanks Merlin, Salazar, and Godric that he doesn’t sound as nervous as he feels, he thinks that raising him to be in tight reign of his emotions was not one of them.

There’s a tinny rattling in the metal chute of the phone box before a metal badge shot out,  the words ‘Draco Malfoy, Meeting with Head Auror’ etched onto it.

“Visitor to the Ministry, you are required to submit to a search and present your wand for registration at the security desk, which is located at the far end of the Atrium.”

The descent is torturously slow and he keeps his feet pinned firmly to the ground, lest he get the urge to do something inane like pace around the red cube. Pacing sounds good, but disapparating and hiding in his flat for the rest of the day sounds absolutely heavenly. Instead he settles for drumming his fingers against the chipped red paint, straightening when the ride all too quickly reaches its destination before striding out into the Atrium, black robes billowing behind Draco in a way that Severus would be proud of.

Having missed the morning rush hour, the Atrium is sparsely populated with the few witches and wizards who are there either enjoying their break or rushing in late. Robards scheduled him for an 11AM meeting, not that Draco has any objections; he can’t imagine having to do this in the density of the morning rush. The few people that are loitering around mostly pay him no mind, with a few odd ones glancing up to look at him waiting for the lift in bemusement before going back to their previous activities. Overall, it’s nicer than he could have hoped.

The _ding_ of the lift signifies its arrival and Draco steps in, immediately breathing in the smell of cheap cologne. The two other wizards in there look at him with a sense of morbid curiosity and something which Draco can’t place. These are not looks they would give Malfoy the Death Eater, and with a sense of dread Draco realizes its amusement. They’re looking at him with concealed amusement. Luckily the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is only on the second level and he doesn’t have to suffer guessing at the reasons for their mirth. Draco almost runs out once the lift reaches the second floor but settles for a purposeful stride instead, chin held high in its usual picture of haughtiness.

After all, this job is an incredibly good one; Robards could have arguably had any Potioneer in the continent to work as a consultant on his case, but he chose _Draco_. It means something – and although he hasn’t calmed down much from earlier this morning, Draco can appreciate that coming back to England may not have been the grave mistake his nerves make it out to be.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy! Here for your 11AM with Head Auror Robards?” The Bones family has always had strong connections to the Ministry, so for Susan Bones to be working – evidently as Robards assistant of some type – is unsurprising. Still, Draco blinks in bemusement anyway, both at seeing Susan Bones again and at the nice, if professional, demeanor she has with him. There’s no way this would have happened, or even been a possibility, five years ago.

He nods his affirmation and follows her when she inclines her head down a hallway. “I trust you’ve been well, Susan?” Draco has always been gifted with small talk – numerous galas and charities and fundraisers have attested to that – but he suddenly feels awkward at being faced with an old classmate again. It’s a foreign feeling; Malfoys don’t _do_ awkward. Susan nods at the question, prattling on about her life and cats and engagements. It’s nice background noise for the otherwise endless hallway.

They come to a halt outside of an imposing mahogany door that Susan calls ‘Conference Room Number Four’ before assuring Draco that if he needs anything, don’t hesitate to ask. Susan Bones should have been an actress instead of an assistant to the Head Auror; she should hate Draco after what the people he allied himself with did to her family.

With a dry swallow, Draco moves to open the door. Whatever he’d been expecting to see on the other side, this certainly isn’t it.

*

“Excuse me for interrupting your meeting, Head Auror Robards. Miss Bones assured me it was fine to come in.”

“Bloody _hell_!” That familiar irritable voice, now hushed in a stage whisper, has grey eyes swiveling across the room to land on the scowling, freckled face of the Weasel. Great, just what this day needs. There’s a splutter of something incomprehensible and Draco’s gaze flickers to the intense, emerald stare of Potter.

Potter’s become an Auror. How predictable, really. Draco tries to take solace in the hope that maybe he won’t have to work with Potter – surely the universe has done enough.

“What’s Malfoy doing here?” Potter blurts out – even more predictable, it seems that being out of Hogwarts has not changed his lack of manners a bit – before hastily adding on a, “er, not that I don’t trust your judgment, sir.” Draco resists the urge to snort.

“I’m glad you asked, Auror Potter.” Robards’ tone is even but he nods at Potter in approval and there’s the hint of a smile under that bushy mustache. “Mr. Malfoy will be assisting us – or you and Auror Macdougal, rather – on a case regarding illegal potions. He’s just received his mastery in Potions from Ecole Polytechnique if I’m not mistaken.” Draco nods and manages not to smirk at Robards’ shoddy pronunciation. Potter gapes open-mouthed before finally pressing his lips together and trying –and failing – not to frown at the news. The thin, slight woman next to Potter who Draco assumes is Macdougal gives a sharp nod and a toneless “alright”.

As Draco moves to take the only seat available (next to Potter, because of course it is) he’s struck with the realization that Potter and the Weasel aren’t Auror partners. This is decidedly unpredictable for the two halves of the so-called Golden Trio, who seemingly were attached at the hip. In his thoughts of Potter post-war, this is not how Draco would have pictured his Auror career going – not that he thinks about that often, because he definitely doesn’t. Instead Weasel is partnered with an attractive, sandy-haired and hazel eyed young man who Draco recognizes as Anthony Goldstein. Macdougal is less familiar but the difference s between her and Potter couldn’t be starker; Potter is wearing a black Muggle t-shirt and jeans under his Auror robes, hair untamed as ever. Macdougal on the other hand is dressed smartly in slacks and a button-down, her thick, dark hair tied in a severe braid. Based on the look of annoyance she’s giving Potter, Draco likes her already.

“With all due respect, sir, why do we need a consultant on this case? We haven’t had one for our other cases.” Potter, evidently, cannot shut up and just accept that they’ll be working together. Draco keeps his eyes trained straight ahead so that he doesn’t give into the impulsion to roll them and scowl like his school days.  Macdougal seems to be doing well enough in that department.

“Because I believe that Mr. Malfoy’s expertise in this case is needed, Auror Potter. We are all adults here. I trust that there will be no punching on Ministry property?” At that, snickering sounded around the table. Draco wanted to Vanish himself, but not before punching Potter one last time. In any case, it got Potter to be quiet long enough for Robards to send the case files flying over to their respective Aurors, declaring that he wanted frequent updates as he did so, before standing and leaving the room.

Silence hangs in the room for about three seconds before hushed chattering emerges. Draco can hear the Weasel’s excitement from where he’s sitting.

“What d’you have, Harry? Tone and I got a raid in Cornwall that they think might be Death Eaters.”

Draco tells himself that the eyes he feels on him are just figments of his imagination.

“We’ve got something to do with potions, Robards said.” There’s the rustling sound of papers being flipped about. “We—oh. It’s something about illegal potions overdoses—hey!”

Draco turns at the delightful sound of Potter’s indignation just in time to see Macdougal snatching the case file from him to look over it herself. She remains unaffected by Potter’s obvious annoyance as she reads through the case, eyebrows arching further and further into her hairline as she scans the words. Once she’s done she hands the file wordlessly to Draco.

_…Victim Alexander William [M, 29] found unconscious in Bristol home. Traces of gillyweed, Calming Drought, and various unknown substances were found in system. William was pronounced DOA at St. Mungo’s Hospital. COD remains unknown: potential overdose. Traces of unknown substances found in his system…_

The paper is shaking and Draco realizes it’s his own traitorous hands causing the movement. The file takes him back to a time years ago, a time he’s worked hard to forget. The sounds of Macdougal and Weasley arguing are a welcome break from his reverie.

“…I can’t believe he’s got _Malfoy_ helping you, Harry.”

“Why do you care so much, Weasley? This isn’t your case.”

“Oh, come on, Macdougal! Don’t act like you don’t feel the same way!”

“As long as he’s qualified I have no qualms.” Draco can feel his lips twitch at that.

“Yeah but—“

“Why don’t you focus on your own case. I’m sure Tony would appreciate that.”

Weasley mumbles something under his breath before swiveling around to face his flustered partner. Macdougal turns to him and Potter, her muddy hazel eyes rolling. “I don’t know how Hermione puts up with him.” Privately it’s a sentiment Draco agrees with.

Potter, not so much. “That’s uncalled for Morag. Ron’s a nice bloke.”

As the sounds of Potter and Macdougal’s argument filter past him, Draco lets a sigh escape him. This is going to be a long case.

*

The fireplace roars to life as Draco steps primly out of it, brushing dust and soot off of his grey slacks. Pansy, from her spot on the large black leather couch, jumps almost a foot in the air causing the blood red Chanel nail polish she was balancing precariously on the edge to spill. Sanguine seeps into black momentarily before being vanished. Draco watches the scene with amusement, his smirk growing as Pansy turns to glare at him.

“Salazar, Draco, how nice to see you. I was _certainly_ expecting you!” Some would call the scowl on her lips intimidating, or aggressive, but having known Pansy Parkinson since childhood he can attest to the affection present and hidden beneath the expression. Her face softens as dark eyes rove over him, taking him in. “What are you doing here anyway?” The question isn’t unkind or uncalled for, as Pansy and Blaise had always been the ones to visit him while he was studying and residing in France.

“I’m back.” He says simply, watching the emotions play across her face – confusion, shock, annoyance, and finally indignation, leaving her to gape at him, wide-eyed, before crossing the room and enveloping him in her thin arms. The smell of Chanel No. 5 wafts over him, familiar and comforting and missed.

“You bastard!” she shrieks, swatting at him. “You absolute bastard! Where are you staying, the Manor?”

Draco shakes his head, a scowl on his lips. “Don’t be ridiculous, Pans. I have my own flat.” Staying at the Manor was out of the question. It hasn’t been the same since the Occupation, and even though it’s been years, Draco can’t stand to be in there for longer than he has to. His father being released from Azkaban last year on ‘good behavior’ and thus remaining at the Manor also dampened his family home for him. Sometimes he believes the act of escaping Lucius Malfoy to be a futile attempt.

Pansy arches a thin, dark eyebrow. “Does your mother know?”

He thinks of the letters from his mother, neatly stacked up on his dining table, and quells the guilt as it tries to rise. His lips press in a thin line. “I’m…not sure. I presume so. She’s written, in any case.”

“Have my ears deceived me, or has Draco deigned it appropriate to bless us with his presence?” A decanter of scotch and three glasses float into the room, followed by Blaise, who swiftly kisses Pansy on the cheek before moving to embrace Draco. His two best friends being in a relationship is something he still isn’t over two years later. Briefly, he wonders if that’s how Potter feels.

“Fuck off, Zabini.”

“Oh, we’ve got a feisty one!” Blaise pours them each a shot of scotch which Draco accepts and drinks perhaps a tad greedily. “Was your night with Potter unsuccessful then?”

Draco can feel his damned pale cheeks beginning to flush pink, which he knows does no favors for his complexion. Pansy chokes on her shot, her eyes darting between the two of them. “ _What_?” she rasps, scandalized. Draco glares at the other man who shoots him a charismatic grin.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard, Pans?” That infuriating grin is beginning to grow now and two small dimples dent in Blaise’s cheeks. He gasps in mock horror. “Have you not read the _Prophet_?”

Pansy sniffs. “I don’t read that tripe, darling.”

“You have to see this, amor. Our Draco has made it. I can’t wait for Rita to call me in for an interview so I can tell her all about his own little Potterwatch. Pans, do you think we still have those Potter  Stinks badges?” With a flourish of his wand Blaise sends the _Prophet_ flying into the sitting room, landing right in front of Pansy and Draco. He can feel the shock and horror coil in his gut simultaneously.

_THE BOY WHO LIVED TO FIGHT_ , the headline reads, accompanied by photos of the both of them. Draco watches in morbid horror as photograph-him gets punched before falling off the barstool on a loop. There’s a smaller photo, though no less embarrassing, of them getting kicked out of the club.

Wordlessly, Draco takes a shot, and then another. A hysterical laugh, the giggle of the insane, threatens to spill from his lips as he recalls his mantra from this morning.

‘Make the best of it’, he had thought. How terribly naïve.


	3. Chapter 3

“I hear rustling in your dark magic; the old seas of midnight.”

**-Yvan Goll**

 

Harry steps off of the lift and onto the polished, speckled tiles of the second level of the Ministry, trainers scuffing against the hard floor. He’s running late, because of course he is, and his second day of working with Malfoy has a ninety-nine percent chance of going absolutely terrible. It’s technically only the first day but the thought of having one more day added to the calendar of ‘Days Worked with Malfoy’ is enough to have Harry warm up to the idea of handing in his resignation, never to return.

It’s been long enough in his career at the Ministry that the stares have mostly died down. There’s the occasional awestruck expressions and gushing of thanks, but Harry doesn’t mind that on most days; he still hates the press and he’s never been one to crave attention (at least from the public) but he likes to think he handles being a public persona with slightly more grace than his adolescent self did. Ignoring the casual stares from fellow workers as he walks down the corridor, Harry even feels grateful for the fact that Macdougal, despite being generally insufferable most days, has never hero-worshipped him like he was afraid any potential partner would. Harry knows that today the stares have nothing to do with his status as Harry Potter, Savior of the Wizarding World, and everything to do with the trainers, leather jacket, Muggle band t-shirt and joggers combo he has going on under his Auror robes. If only he was in the Muggle world he could claim the absurdity as another casualty of ‘laundry day’, but spending half his life among wizards tells him that far too little would understand and he has no desire to further explain anything today.

As he rounds the corner to his office – shared with Macdougal, of course – he stops immediately at the sight before him, his jaw working as he takes it in. There’s Morag on her immaculately kept side of the office, and then there’s Malfoy. Malfoy, seated like a king. In _his_ chair.

Harry’s fist clenches around the Styrofoam cup of coffee in his right hand. The pressure is enough to send the flimsy material caving in on itself, burning liquid spilling over his hand. “Fuck!” he clutches his hand to his chest, hissing in pain as he immediately spells an _Aguamenti_ on it. Malfoy and Macdougal are unperturbed, the latter’s head still dutifully bowed over her paperwork while Malfoy watches the scene unfold as though he’s watching a particularly boring game of Quidditch.

“You’re late.” Macdougal informs him redundantly, muddy eyes still boring into her papers as she dips her quill in ink. Malfoy gives a small nod of agreement.

Harry ignores her. “Why are you at my desk, Malfoy?”

Malfoy, the theatric git, swivels around in the chair once before raising a groomed eyebrow. “Where else am I supposed to sit, Potter?” His mouth sets in a cold, uncompromising line that Harry can recognize the challenge in. The corners of his lips lift into the ghost of an equally cold smile. “Especially when you were hardly available to claim it as yours.”

The thought of telling Malfoy to refer to him as ‘Auror Potter’ flits through his mind, just to wind the other man up, before Harry thinks better of it. Hermione would call such a move ‘growing up’ and ‘moving beyond enmity’, but Harry is too busy being terribly conscious of the fact that Malfoy discussing ‘claiming’ in any context makes his stomach swoop. He tells himself that it’s just been too long since he got laid. He’ll have to pull next time he goes out.

There’s a snort that Harry knows came from Macdougal, who flicks her eyes from the endless stack of paperwork to his in confusion and slight disdain. “Why didn’t you just levitate the cup?” Harry feels his neck heat as the idea, embarrassingly enough, hadn’t actually occurred to him. Malfoy is looking at him the way he always does – as though he thinks Harry is an idiot – which suggests that he is aware to some degree of what he’s about to say. Thankfully, his partner holds a long-fingered hand up. “Forget it, I don’t actually want to know. Weasley came by before and invited you to dinner with him and Hermione tonight.”

“Er, thanks, Morag,” Harry grumbles, his head bobbing in a jerky nod. There’s something intimate about her throwing that business out there in front of Malfoy even if it isn’t necessarily private. He clears his throat, already desperate to get this day on track and over with. “Alright. So. How about we check out the victim’s apartment? There might be something useful there that was missed. Something that Malfoy might notice and we didn’t.” As much as it pains him to admit that last sentence, to the point where it comes out in a grumble, Harry just wants to get this all over with. The quicker this case gets closed the quicker Malfoy is out of his hair.

The blond lifts one shoulder in an elegant shrug. “If we must.”

Harry flicks his green eyed gaze over to Morag, who rolls her own eyes back at him. “Yes, and then who will do all of this paperwork? Go with Malfoy and inform me of anything you might find. I’ll stay behind.” He shoots her a grateful smile at that, knowing that the former Ravenclaw isn’t all that bad. She’s prickly and pretentious but she also knows he hates paperwork and does more than her share of it for him. It’s a win-win except it also means he has to put up with her comments.

“Alright, so we’re off then. Let’s go, Malfoy.” Harry’s about to move to leave when movement catches the corner of his eye from his partner’s desk and a closer inspection has him watching that infamous picture of him punching Malfoy in Zabini’s club, the blond knocked off of his stool at once.

Harry sighs. Today is going to be a long day.

*

“This place is disgusting,” Malfoy declares as they enter the apartment that once belonged to Alexander William. “Absolute filth.”

Privately, Harry agrees. The small apartment located in the heart of Bristol has seen better days. It isn’t so much a flat as it is a room; a room littered, Harry notices, with what looks like thousands of take-away cartons, some of them – most of them – still containing food. Malfoy takes a careful step over a mountain of what looks like was once Chinese take-away, designer loafers at odds with the atmosphere of the room around them. Voicing his agreement with Malfoy is out of the question and so Harry just shrugs. “Not up to your impeccable standards, Malfoy?” He can’t help baiting him. Harry imagines Hermione would be very disappointed in him now if she could see him.

Malfoy scowls and mutters something under his breath that Harry can’t make out.  Something citrusy and sharp fills his nostrils, the smell a pleasant contrast to the pungent odor that permeates the room and Harry can’t help but inhale more of it, not caring that Malfoy is looking at him as though he’s grown another head. “What smells good?” The realization of the source of the scent comes only after he’s said it; there’s no one in the room besides the two of them and Harry certainly doesn’t wear citrusy cologne. He’s lucky if he remembers to put on cologne most days. Malfoy eyes him again, something unreadable in his face before he glances away, suddenly very interested in the floorboards. Harry shakes himself to rid the thought. Malfoy does not _smell nice_ , even if he does.

The blond coughs and Harry is grateful for the break in tension. “What exactly are we doing here, Potter?”

“What do you think? We’re searching for evidence Malfoy.” Malfoy says nothing to that but stalks off in the opposite direction, midnight blue robes billowing impressively after him. Harry sighs and follows him to what he recognizes as a bathroom in a similar state to the rest of the apartment, watching in silence as Malfoy throws open the medicine cabinet and searches haphazardly through it before retreating and leaving Harry to follow him into the bedroom.  The bedroom is an eruption of clothes and suitcases as though William was a frequent traveler, or perhaps moved around a lot; there was no mention of that in his file but Harry wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case. He watches, mouth dropping open as Malfoy rifles through various clothes and nightstand drawers before moving on to the poor suitcases.

“Malfoy,” he begins slowly, “what are you doing?”

Malfoy’s arm is half disappeared into the suitcase and had the vision of his grey, sweater-clad arm ending at the elbow and then being swallowed by the void not brought up similar memories of Hermione and her never-ending bag during the Horcrux Camping Incident, it would be comical. Instead Harry represses a cringe at the sight, his cringe morphing into confusion and then begrudging awe as Malfoy’s arm reappears, the pale fingers clutching several small vials of different liquids.

“The potions, Potter,” Malfoy says in a breathy voice, crystalline eyes looking at the vials with equal parts reverence and wariness.  His pale cheeks are flushed with triumph and a small part of Harry decides it’s a nice look. “I’ve found the potions.”

*

The discovery of the potions was hardly a break in the case but it does deserve lunch and so Harry takes Malfoy to a Muggle café near the Ministry that he’s fallen in love with.

They eat in silence, Harry peering at Malfoy over his plate of chips and Malfoy determinedly focusing on his soup. Of course Malfoy would use a spoon with soup, an observation which has Harry rolling his eyes but not unkindly.

“What do you expect me to do? Slurp from the bowl like a Neanderthal?” Malfoy drawls in a tone that lacks its usual heat. Harry feels a sudden wave of gratitude for his bronzed skin which can hide a flush better than the creamy ivory of Malfoy’s; otherwise it would be very awkward.

“That’s how normal people eat, Malfoy.”

“It’s common and base.”

Harry snorts and pops a chip into his mouth, amusement coloring his features. “No doubt it is.”

Malfoy gives a self-assured nod, twirling his spoon in his soup. Ordering lobster bisque in a café is a very Malfoy thing to do too, Harry thinks. “The act of slurping is completely unbecoming of a Malfoy.” And then the blond seems to realize the double entendre of what he said, because he goes quiet suddenly and once again becomes focused on the last few spoonfuls of soup left.

The fact that Harry catches himself recognizing the double entendre as though he’s a teenager again proves that he really must get laid and soon. He nearly drops his fork at the realization and instead settles for popping another chip in his mouth.  He chews as he thinks of a way to break the tense silence that hangs over them; he and Malfoy have never been silent with one another, not even when they were schoolyard nemeses. It’s unnatural.

“I wrote you,” Harry blurts out into the silence. Perhaps it’s the tension that spurs it on, or the momentary high of unveiling potentially huge evidence in their case. “After the war,” he clarifies, and then cringes inwardly. It wasn’t a necessary clarification.

Malfoy blinks at him. Something passes in his eyes, something that Harry can’t identify and maybe wants to. “I know.”

“I—what?”

“I know,” Malfoy repeats. “I received your letters.” There’s a strained quality to his voice.

Harry gapes at him. “Why didn’t you write back?” The question is petulant, he knows. Malfoy didn’t owe him anything – and still doesn’t – but an acknowledgement, a simple ‘thanks’, would have sufficed all those years ago. Annoyance wells in him and he doesn’t know why he feels like a scorned lover when he and Malfoy have never had the ‘exchanging owls’ sort of relationship. They haven’t had any ‘sort’ of relationship.

“I was dealing with the aftermath of the war, Potter. Forgive me if my thoughts weren’t focused wholly on you. I know the sensation must be foreign.” Malfoy replies waspishly, his fingers immediately clutching to tug at the fabric of his left sleeve. Harry’s eyes dart to follow the movement and Malfoy scowls and suddenly they’re teenagers all over again, arguing and getting out all the things they never got to say.

“Still think you were on the wrong side of the war, then?”

“You don—“

“Still trying to justify your role by hiding behind your father, again?” Harry’s voice rises slightly and the couple at the table next to them glances over before Malfoy’s glare has them returning to their own meal. It was the wrong thing to say and Harry knows it; still, there’s a part of him, a selfish, dark part that is glad to get it out. Malfoy isn’t his father, that much he knows, and the world has changed so much post-war. In other ways, it hasn’t at all. Lucius Malfoy’s freedom after a meager five years is a testament to that.

Malfoy stands up, chair scraping against the floorboards harshly. He’s breathing heavily and Harry has no doubt that if they weren’t among Muggles he would be hexed. “Fuck you, Potter.” The hiss escapes his lips in barely concealed fury as Malfoy disappears, a flurry of dark blue robes as he stalks out of the café.

 

*

The rest of the workday passes by in an uncomfortable silence, with Malfoy not talking to Harry unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then practically snarling his words when he did so. The only thing that got him through _that_ mess was the dinner invitation with Ron and Hermione which Morag informed him of earlier in the day.

Harry steps out of his best friends Floo and almost sinks to his knees in relief at the heavenly smell of cooking in the air. He can hear them talking in the kitchen, Hermione’s laughter ringing out over to the living room. He grins. “Is that spag-bol I smell?”

“Harry!” Suddenly Hermione is throwing herself in his arms, her halo of curls brushing against his cheek and his nose. He smiles into her hair and breathes in the smell of apples and cinnamon.

“Oi, mate,” Ron claps him on the back and Harry does the same. His large, freckled hand reaches out to poke Harry on the cheek and seeker’s reflexes move to swat it away. Ron grins. “Had to make sure that Malfoy didn’t kill you and pull a Polyjuice on us.”

“Ron!”

“What, ‘Mione? You know he would!”

Hermione rolls her large brown eyes. “Really, because it wasn’t _Malfoy_ punching _Harry_ in the article I read.” She shoots Harry a withering glare that would make Molly Weasley jealous.

“I think you mean The Boy Who Lived to Fight.” Ron corrects through stifled laughter before letting a belly laugh loose. Harry groans.

“Alright, it wasn’t my proudest moment…”

“I’m sure it wasn’t! Really, Harry, what were you _thinking_? You’re an Auror, you could have even been arrested or even fired!” Hermione shoots him another scathing look as she sends the bowls of pasta floating in, one for each of them. Harry grins as he watches Ron waste no time in digging into his.

“Yeah, well, sometimes being the Chosen One isn’t all bad,” Harry admits with a cocky shrug through bites of spaghetti. Ron gives a slight nod when his girlfriend isn’t watching.

“But you work together. Shouldn’t that be reason enough to move past everything?” Harry shoots an accusatory look towards Ron, who takes a minute out of inhaling his food to make a ‘wasn’t me’ gesture. “Morag,” Hermione clarifies with a shrug.  He snorts. _Should have known._

“’Ow ‘ong?” Ron asks through a mouthful of food, a small shower of Bolognese sauce erupting from his lips. At Hermione’s exasperated but fond sigh he swallows and tries again. “For how long?”

“I don’t actually know,” Harry admits, idly twirling strands of spaghetti on his fork.

Ron makes a noise of sympathy. “First Morag and now Malfoy. I don’t envy you, mate.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Morag! Honestly, I don’t understand your problem with her.” Hermione’s eyes roll again as she whacks Ron on the arm lightly.

“Er, well, Malfoy wasn’t too terrible today either. I mean. He found something that we needed for the case, that is.” Harry trails off lamely, the admission feeling weird on his tongue to say out loud. Malfoy has been associated with ‘git’ (and he still is) and awful (which he kind of is) for so long now that to admit the contrary is odd.

“But…?” Hermione prompts, placing a hand on his shoulder for support.

Harry grimaces. “I guess we argued today. I was the one who got him riled up though, about something stupid from the past.” He’d never told Ron and Hermione about the letters he wrote and he isn’t planning on doing so now. The three of them know practically everything there is to know about one another, but this is a piece of information that he, bizarrely, wants to keep for himself.

“Well, he’s always been a git.” Ron mutters into his glass of water. Hermione makes a ‘hmm’ and Harry can’t tell if it is one of approval or contemplation.

“He was actually…okay, today, before the arguing. It was…okay.” Harry laughs, his finger tracing the cold condensation down the side of his glass. “I don’t think I hate him anymore.”

Hermione exchanges A Look with Ron before flicking her glance back to Harry, an odd little smile on her face. He represses a groan; those smiles have never meant anything good. “No,” she agrees softly, “I don’t think you do.”


	4. Chapter 4

“How could I, fool that I am, go on sitting in my office, or here at home, instead of leaping onto a train with my eyes shut and opening them only when I am with you?”

- **Franz Kafka**

It’s a beautiful feeling to be able to work in silence, even if Draco has Potter to (begrudgingly) thank for this small luxury.

Since the outburst that occurred over lunch, Potter has refused to talk to him, and naturally, Draco hasn’t cracked yet either. The resulting past two days have been more than productive but far from blissful; human interaction is a blessed thing and shouldn’t be taken for granted, and while interacting with Potter isn’t the highlight of Draco’s day, it’s quite difficult to bother him in the midst of a cold war. He can’t recall a time where he and Potter _didn’t_ talk; even at the height of their animosity during Hogwarts they never really gave one another the silent treatment, preferring hexes and taunts as outlets for their anger. Draco itches to hit Potter with a well-placed Stinging Hex now, as the other man pours through paper work with the paper way too close to his irritating face, but to do so in their current emotional climate would likely escalate to an all-out duel ending with Draco’s subsequent arrest. The silent treatment isn’t as fun as antagonizing Potter but between ‘going to Azkaban’ and ‘working in solitude’ it is the lesser of two evils so he’ll gladly take it. Perhaps this is growing up.

Macdougal, at least, enjoys the newfound quiet of the office. Potter still talks to her, of course – the Saviour would _never_ be anything less than chivalrous towards an innocent party in their feud. He would probably rather die, if he ever could.

Draco has also learned that while he can no longer verbally affect Potter directly, he can still do so through Macdougal. Smirking and snorting at any disparaging remark the woman makes towards Potter is enough to have a muscle in that strong, tan jaw twitch from the intensity of his glare, to which Draco merely sneers back at. These are the small victories he revels in these days; Robards seems to want him to develop early hypertension anyway, what with working with Potter and all, so he might as well enjoy it while he can.

He’s just in the middle of glowering at the sight of the wildebeest nest that Potter calls hair – today the unruly, raven strands are gathered at the nape of his neck in a failed semblance of a bun, as there’s more hair escaping from it than actually contained – when someone’s alarm charm goes off. Probably Macdougal’s.

Potter sets his paperwork down, blinks his eyes owlishly, and proceeds to yawn. “Lunch already? Bugger.” He shakes his head, causing more strands to break free. The hair-to-bun ratio is incredibly high now and Draco feels intensely irritated at the sight. He wants to reach out and pull it. “You down for the canteen today, or d’you fancy the chip shop behind the Ministry?”

“The canteen has salmon on the menu today, doesn’t it? I do believe you owe me garlic parmesan chips though, after last time.” Macdougal shoots Potter a triumphant grin and Draco notices her teeth are crooked, yet another sight that serves to irritate him further despite him liking Macdougal most days.

“Alright, alright. I’ll meet you there then.” Potter laughs – a terribly grating sound – and holds his hands up in mock surrender as he slings his bag over his shoulder and leaves the office. Draco can practically hear the grinding of his teeth in the ensuing silence and a voice that sounds too much like his mother’s scolds him for the act.

Potter and Macdougal have _lunches_ together apparently, because of course they do. He wonders if Potter grills her about her memories and perception of the war before scoffing at the thought; no, that must be a service he reserves strictly for Death Eaters, defected or not. Potter doesn’t even truly like his partner; the sentiment has never been expressed but Draco sees the way he ignores her jibes and the way Macdougal herself appears exasperated with the git most days.

Besides, there’s something that irks him about Potter having lunches, plural, with Macdougal despite the petty disagreements they fall into. It only serves to remind Draco of yet another chance he wasn’t given, another time Potter’s chosen someone else over him. Being reminded of your eleven year old self at twenty three is not a good feeling, however, and so Draco banishes the thought and locks it deep into the vaults of his mind as quickly as it appeared.

The soft clearing of a throat rips him out of the banks of self-hatred. “Alright there Malfoy?” Macdougal lingers in the doorway, leaning against the frame. Her plucked eyebrows are knit together and the look she’s giving him is of odd concern. Draco realizes he’s been glaring daggers at a calendar of kneazle’s on her desk. One of them, a cream colored ball of fluff, rolls on its belly and bats stubby paws in the air.

“I’m fine.” He doesn’t mean to snap at her in reply, but he does anyway, and a dark eyebrow rises further before Macdougal gives him one last glance and slinks out of the doorframe to meet Potter. For lunch. And chips. That he’s owed her, apparently.

Once alone, Draco sighs and rubs his temples. If this truly was just one big scheme orchestrated by Robards to give him an early death by hypertension, well, mission successful.

*

The Floo roars to life and Draco steps out of it, brushing soot and an excess of dust off of his twill slacks. His lip curls as he realizes that mere brushing is unacceptable and the pants will probably need a good cleaning charm or ten. “While you might enjoy having your clothes collect dust and calling it _vintage_ , I do believe it’s time to clean your Floo, Pans.”

Pansy doesn’t bother to acknowledge him from her spot on the couch, too engrossed in this week’s edition of _Witch Weekly_ to care for mundane tasks such as socializing with childhood friends. “Sounds lovely Dray, but the only vintage I care for is wine. We’ve been over this.” She replies absently, red tipped fingernails flipping idly through the glossy pages of the tabloid.

With a sigh Draco stalks over to the plush leather couch and sinks into it immediately, curling up into the favored position with his head in Pansy’s lap. The leather of her pants is cool against his cheek and his mind is brought back to their school days, when he would come to her like this during times he thought his world was ending, more often than not ending with a rant about Potter. Some things never change no matter how much hope is put into it, but the stagnancy can also become a comfort, a constant. It has for him.

Manicured fingers rake through fine silver hair and another sigh escapes him, this time of content. There’s the rustling of papers which tells him that the magazine has been tossed to the coffee table, Pansy leaving her tabloid trash discarded in favor of _accio_ ing her pack of cigarettes towards her. The smell of cigarette smoke floods his nostrils, intense but not unwelcome.

“What’s wrong, my love? Has your mother written you again?”

Draco scoffs, not caring that Pansy can’t see it. “I swear to Salazar, fucking Potter—“

The hand in his hair tightens almost painfully, leaving Draco to nearly let out an embarrassing whine that the vipers he calls his friends would surely never let him live down. “Don’t bother finishing the rest of that sentence, Draco. It’s been years and you’re really going to make me reinstate the rule?”

He recoils off of her lap in annoyance, brushing silvery strands away from his eyes. “This is _one time_ Pansy and I need to vent, you soulless hag. There is no need to reinstate an unnecessary rule like we’re in Hogwarts again.”

“It always starts off with just one time before you end up babbling about all of the things Potter did wrong. _Blaise_!” Pansy’s shrill voice calls for her boyfriend and Draco tries not to argue back that he does no such thing as babbling.

Blaise Apparates to the sitting room instantly, looking between the pair in amusement. “It’s almost like I’ve missed something that verges on the cusp of being important.”

“Draco is making me heavily consider reinstating the no Potter talk rule again, darling.”

“Oh? What have I missed? Don’t tell me I’ve made the terrible mistake of missing the reprise of ‘Potter is an insufferable, egotistical prat who lives for the attention his sycophants throw at him’.” Blaise drawls in what is a rather poor, and unflattering, attempt at Draco’s cadence.

A scowl twists his lips. “Forgive me for operating under the assumption I can vent to my oldest friends.”

“Shall we Floo the Mind-Healer for you?” Blaise quips, raising a sardonic eyebrow. Pansy snorts and moves from her place on the couch to wrap herself around her boyfriend like a human boa.

“I think a drink is much needed, don’t you?” A lazy flick of her wand sends a bottle of elf-wine floating in, three glasses trailing after like loyal ducklings. Draco accepts his easily, taking several deep sips.

Pansy lets out a long-suffering sigh. Buzzed from the wine, Draco thinks maybe she _is_ long-suffering, having been the sounding board to his Potter problems for nearly a decade now. Pansy Parkinson deserves a gift for that alone. “Alright, now that I have the appropriate resources to get me through this, what did Potter do now?”

She may have the resources needed, but with two-thirds of his glass gone, Draco decidedly does not. Blaise notices and shoots him an impish grin. “Another glass, Draco?”

*

The next morning sees Draco waking up with a pounding headache and eyes that instinctively shut tight at the near-excruciating brightness of the sun. If he didn’t know his bed is firmly anchored to the floor, the way furniture should remain, he would think it’s spinning around the room.

Twenty three is simultaneously too old and too young to be hungover. There’s definitely been times he drank more than this, so for elf wine to get to him this way is quite pathetic.

He makes his way to his medicine cabinet, swaying all the while, and quickly downs a hangover potion, ignoring the chalky taste that accompanies it. He doesn’t remember getting home last night but waking up in his own bed is always a pleasant surprise; such nights remind him of the old days, as pretentious as the term sounds, when he and Pansy and Blaise would drink their troubles away and sleep the morning after off only to repeat it all again the following night. Some things truly never change.

Sometimes, other things do. Draco has work and so owling his friends to drown their sorrows in liquor will have to wait another day.

Work means entering the spacious office and seeing Potter and suddenly being all too aware of the distance between them. A silly thing to be upset over, really – Potter has never been one of his friends, so any distance between them should hardly be felt. Draco feels a sudden wave of irritation flood him as he grinds his back molars, not caring if it turns them to dust. Potter just had to bring up the letters, didn’t he? Yet another glaring reminder of a time he’s worked so hard to forget and which seems to haunt him despite his best efforts.

Maybe work can wait another day, too. He’s only a case consultant anyway – surely he can work from home, examine the potions, and hopefully find something worth reporting to the Aurors over. That will show Potter; he’d love to see the gormless look on his face when Robards congratulates Draco for his findings.

Draco strides to the corner of his room for his robes and messenger bag, where the potions lay tucked safely inside. The memory of the deceased’s apartment burns into his mind, images of the absolute state of disarray as though William spent hours searching for those very potions. Draco twitches involuntarily; it’s a feeling he’s familiar with, in a sense, though he never quite got that far deep.

Testing the potions to see if they’ve been spiked with any unsavory ingredients is not only a long and arduous process, but one which requires copious space. His flat is by no means small but it lacks the room needed. Pansy and Blaise’s villa – which is in all actuality Blaise’s – is out of the question, as is the flat Pansy owns and tells her mother she stays at.

That leaves only one place. Draco curses lowly, rubbing a hand over his face in frustration. It’s now or never, and he’d rather get it over with now.

*

Malfoy Manor has remained unchanged since last time he’s been here. Draco can’t quite remember when that was; perhaps a year, or two or three, after he left for France. Certainly not any time after that, and definitely not after his father’s release. The wards seek him out instantly and he lets the warm tingle of familiar magic wash over him as the gates open for him to step through. The peacocks, usually vicious and intent on attempting to peck guests half to death, regard him with cold curiosity not unlike their owners. Memories of him and Pansy playing in this courtyard float through his mind, unwelcome and unbidden. Remembering this place for all it used to be will do no good here.

That old shroud of apathy drapes itself atop his shoulders, wrapping around him like a jealous lover might. Draco stiffens, his lips pursing into a hard line.

“Young Master Draco!” Tilly’s excited shriek bursts him out of his reverie and he represses the urge to wince. She prostrates her small, wrinkled body into a bow before him; an act of Lucius’ influence which seems to have returned when he did. His father always liked for the elves to bow and remain subservient to them. Like most of what his father instilled in him, Draco cared less for that belief as he got older.

He manages a curt nod worthy of a Malfoy heir at the elf and allows himself to be led to the drawing room. The interior hasn’t changed much either but the aura definitely has. Dark magic never truly goes away, instead preferring to remain in the air as dampness, a shiver down the spine. The return of his father has only intensified that. It seems not even Azkaban could rid the man of the stench.

Tilly leads him to the dining room where she presents him with a triumphant flourish that contrasts with Draco’s stiff body and haughty expression. It would be comical if he could find it in himself to laugh but he can’t. The Manor always has brought out the worst in him.

He’s interrupted his parents in the middle of their breakfast. His mother, beautiful as ever, delicately sets down the fork she’s holding. Her hands are shaking, he notices. All of the emotions she won’t allow to play across her face, reflected in the simple shaking of her hand. Her cerulean eyes are bright as she flickers them towards his, and Draco feels a stab of guilt for not contacting his mother earlier.

“Darling,” she says, and then she’s hugging him, her powdery perfume flooding his nostrils. He tries not to stiffen further at the contact and ends up sagging into the embrace. He hadn’t realized it, how much he’s missed his mother. Grey eyes close as he inhales deeply into her flaxen hair. “How I’ve missed you, my dragon. I presume France has treated you well.”

His mother’s tone is not warm; it’s the same cadence she’s always used with him, as she’s always been one to show her affection and love through gentle touches and actions rather than words. There’s an edge to the statement that Draco recognizes and hates at once – Mother is understandably angry about the lack of contact but is too refined to say it, instead choosing to disguise it behind double –edged statements. The politics of this family is one thing that never changes. Draco can’t say he’s missed it.  His mother loves him, this he knows. It comforts and overwhelms him at once.

“That it has, Mother.”

She places a hand to his cheek and sighs. He notices, for the first time, that as beautiful as she is his mother is beginning to age. The soft formations of fine lines grace the skin by her mouth, and there are purplish half-moons not unlike the ones he gets when stressed under her eyes. “Must you wear your hair this way, darling?” She fingers the tail of his braid and he sighs. The retort of ‘how would you prefer me to wear it, mother?’ dies on his tongue – because he does know and refuses to wear it and further look like _him_ – as the clinking of glass shifts his attention.

His father had previously been silent, and as Draco watches him pour himself a hearty serving of brandy, he knows he’s been biding his time. Brandy at breakfast is an interesting and new development; he’s grateful this change in behavior occurred after the fall of the Dark Lord. Father managed to fuck up their lives plenty while sober. Draco can’t imagine it would have benefitted them in any way had he been drunk.

Cold grey eyes – Draco’s eyes – observe him blankly as his father takes several deep sips from his goblet. Unlike his mother, Lucius lets nothing slip through the cracks of his mask. Draco used to admire that about him, and to some degree still does. Besides the drinking, Azkaban did little to change his father; his hair, still the way Draco’s always remembered it, remains slicked back and reaching past his shoulders. Several rings, many of them bearing the Malfoy signet, glimmer on his father’s hand.

It’s like he never left.

“The prodigal son returns at last.” That voice is just as haughty and cold as he remembered.

Draco affects his best smirk and can’t help but feel his father can see through it. “Indeed, Father.”

“I see you work at the Ministry now.” His father looks anything but pleased at the prospect. “Tell me, Draco, why is it that when I open the _Prophet_ , the first thing I see is my son being assaulted by Harry Potter?”

His father’s voice is deceptively soft and, at twenty three years old, Draco still feels a shiver of fear at it. He manages to look unaffected, slipping into the carefully procured blank mask of his youth. “Always a pleasure to see you too, Father.” He mutters lowly, before raising his chin loftily. “Any small talk will have to wait, unfortunately. I’m afraid I have some business to attend to while here.”

“Business,” Lucius repeats the word as though it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “A word of advice, Draco, is to leave any _business_ you engage in to remain private. The name of this family has suffered enough, and it will not do for you to sully it any further. This,” a careful flick of his wand sends that dreaded _Prophet_ article with him and Potter hurtling towards him, “is most unbecoming for not only our name, but also for the sole heir.” Another swish leaves the article reduced to ash by his feet.

Heart hammering, Draco gives a curt nod before Apparating to his bedroom. The thought that perhaps he should have went to work and thus chance seeing Potter briefly comes into contemplation, but Draco waves it off. When it came down to it, he’s always been a coward, anyway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? post a chapter at a normal time? impossible. tw/cw for brief discussion of drugs and drug overdoses

**“** My way is not in the solemn ways, or the reasoned ways, but in the wild free way of the eagle, and the devious way of the serpent, and the oblique way of the factor unknown and unnumbered.”

- **Jack Parsons**

On Friday morning, by some miracle, Harry manages to make it to work early. Not just five or ten minutes early, but a whole half hour; a feat that was accomplished due to his inability to sleep the night before, which may or may not have been compounded by thoughts of a certain posh wanker.

It isn’t that Harry thinks he was _wrong_ for the argument which occurred over lunch. He’s matured enough to realize that the world isn’t split into factions of Good People vs Death Eaters and knows that that line of reasoning is incredibly simplistic and, in times of war, often more nuanced than that. They were all just kids thrown into positions none of them asked to be in, trying to survive.

That doesn’t make the actions of Malfoy and his family an easier pill to swallow, though. How can it, when the deeds of Malfoy Senior directly caused harm to people he loves and cares for? Harry is long past believing all Slytherins are evil and that Draco Malfoy was a coward and a bully but no evil mastermind; however, that doesn’t mean that he was destined to walk the path of prejudice and become a Death Eater. There were other options. Help is always available to those who ask, and Harry knows Dumbledore, manipulative as he was, would not turn away a child.

His old mentor would also encourage him to move past adolescent grudges, were he here. He was always able to see the good in others; even those who were written off by the majority. Dumbledore may have raised Harry with the hopes of him being a human shield, but that is something which if Harry dwells on too long will send him spiraling into the pits of depression he hadn’t experienced since immediately after the war, and so he prefers to focus on the good aspects of his former Headmaster. At least Dumbledore always had some wonderful advice.

The decision to apologize to Malfoy for what happened over lunch was one Harry came up with entirely on his own, and has since shared with no one. Thinking back on it, he figures it’s pretty good he was able to throw off an Imperius at school; otherwise Ron would surely think he was cursed just for coming up with the idea. He chuckles lightly at the thought as he enters his shared office, only to blink in bemusement at the sight which greets him.

It’s far too early for even Morag, punctual as she is, to be here. Malfoy sits at Harry’s desk as though he owns it, per usual, except Harry can’t find it in him to be annoyed. Mostly because Malfoy looks like shit; he’s always been pale but he looks downright grey, and Harry notices there’s purple shadows imprinted beneath his eyes. He’s staring at the bottom of his cup of tea as though it holds the answer to whatever problem he’s clearly facing. The presence of the tea is a blatant break of Morag’s staunchly held “No Bevs In Office” rule, but she won’t find out, not from Harry anyway.

“Morning.” Harry greets as he clicks the door shut. Malfoy says nothing, choosing instead to regard him blankly. Pressing his lips together, Harry fights the urge to sigh and walk back out to get a coffee or tea of his own. “Look, Malfoy, about the other day. I wanted to—“

“Don’t.” Malfoy warns, holding a pale hand up to silence him. “You’ve said what you said, Potter, and you can’t take it back.” There’s no malice in his tone surprisingly. He just sounds tired, weary, and Harry feels a stab of guilt and then another at even feeling guilty in the first place.

Malfoy preferring to just move on rather than discuss anything and act as though nothing’s happened is a refreshing constant factor in the face of how everything else has changed.

“Er, alright.” He hangs his coat up on the brass rack behind the door and then takes a seat at Morag’s desk, his eyebrows furrowing at Malfoy. “Where were you the other day? I didn’t see you come in.”

“I was studying the potions in my lab. I’m a consultant. I’m not required to be in office daily.” Defensiveness creeps into that annoyingly plummy voice, leaving Harry to fight back a grin.

“Oh? Did you find anything?”

“Yes. There was an unknown substance in trace amounts in one of the potions. It was Muggle, I believe. I’ll have to run more tests on it.”

Harry nods in interest, his teeth sinking down to bite on his lower lip. “How come you didn’t just check his stomach contents for it? The coroner would’ve given you the information if you asked.”

Malfoy fixes him with a look that suggests he thinks Harry is an idiot. It’s an expression Harry’s familiar with, and which gives him hope that things are maybe returning back to some semblance of normalcy. Whatever their normalcy is. “Because I’m here to do a job, Potter, not merely ask about the findings of others.”

“Right, well, you know we have a lab here to work in, don’t you?”

“Hmm.” Long fingers stroke the edge of a quill and Harry finds himself mesmerized in that small, insignificant action before snapping his attention back to the owner of those captivating digits. “Perhaps I’ll consider it, next time.”

This time Harry can’t fight back his grin, and even though Malfoy is looking at him like he’s a loon, he doesn’t care.

*

“We’ve got another one.” Morag announces as she strides into the office, gait purposeful as ever. Her nose wrinkles in annoyance at him. “Have you even checked in with Bones this morning Potter, or are you just here to look pretty?”

Malfoy snorts inelegantly. Harry, by now feeling the effects of his fitful sleep the night before, suppresses a yawn and is about to argue back with her (though he knows she’s got a point, really, she always does) when he feels a sensation not unlike cold water being dumped over him. He yelps much to his horror. “Wh—what the fuck, Morag? There was no need for that.”

“Trust me, there was.” She assures him, moving to tie her straight, dark hair away from her face. “The vic is Beatrice Haywood, twenty six. She ODed at one of the wizarding clubs in Knockturn early this morning, and currently she’s at St. Mungo’s. Dunno if she’ll make a full recovery or not yet, I reckon it’s still too early for them to tell.” There’s that manic glint in her eyes that’s present whenever they get an update on a case, however bad or good it is; Morag is a true Auror who, unlike Harry, lives for every part of the job. He’s just trying to live.

“Malfoy found something in the potions from the William’s apartment.”

Her calculated gaze roves over to Malfoy in interest and Harry recognizes the grim approval on her face. “Really? So you two go to her apartment then. I’ll talk with her family at hospital to see if they know anything.”

He knows his partner well enough that he’s aware she’s not asking for them to go to the apartment as much as _stating_ it. Harry nods his agreement and Malfoy remains silent, observing the both of them. Morag clasps her hands together and, muttering a ‘see you later then’ practically power walks out of the room, presumably on her way to hospital. Harry glances over at the case file, silently marveling at how fast Susan Bones works; it’s no wonder her family had such strong ties to the Ministry, and Sue clearly is on the track of following their footsteps.

After committing Haywood’s address to mind he holds out a cloaked arm to Malfoy who glances at him for a second before accepting. He realizes just how close Malfoy is next to him; Harry is almost cheek to cheek with him, and is very aware of the other man’s breathing. He clears his throat.

“Right. So what we waiting for, then?”

*

The scene that greets them contrasts totally to the flat of Alexander William’s, Harry notes. They’re in a lofty flat in an area he recognizes as wizarding Chelsea, not that he is overly familiar with the area. His trainers sink into plush, white carpet; the furniture itself is very modern and upscale, and as Harry moves about he notices Beatrice’s apartment comes with a balcony view overlooking the bridge. His earlier assumption was clearly false – this is more of a townhouse than a meagre flat.

Various trinkets line the marble shelves, decorations and mementos that Harry recognizes as souvenirs from exotic travels, similar to what the Dursleys kept – not that he was ever allowed to go with them, of course, but being asked to dust them constantly has given him an eye for the various types of baubles. A calendar hangs on the wall, with every nearly every boxed date filled with a looping, girlish script. Some have sticky notes attached to them with reminders written out. A few of them are serious – Harry can see that a few detail key dates, such as ‘ _meeting, 8am’_ while others, such as, ‘ _Penny’s bday! ;)’_ and _‘offish thirsty thurz x’_ serve as inside jokes that every twenty-something has within their friend group. Had Harry been in possession of a calendar (though it’s not for Hermione’s lack of trying) he knows his would likely look the same. He swallows down a lump.

Malfoy is looking around the space as well, his expression closed off. He must be feeling it too. Harry says nothing as he dutifully follows Malfoy into the bedroom, closing his eyes for a moment before he enters. When he opens them he glances at the photographs on the wall, some magic and some muggle. Majority of them feature two pretty blondes, grinning and sticking their tongues out playfully at the camera, nudging each other and laughing as the shutter clicks and the flash illuminates their faces. Others feature the same two blondes surrounded by hordes of friends; they must be sisters. He can’t deny that Beatrice Haywood is beautiful, even if he doesn’t necessarily understand how she’s ended up in her current predicament.

“This is different from the other vic’s apartment.” Harry says at last, not caring that his voice comes out roughly. He rocks on his trainers. The part of him used to being scolded over everything and constantly cleaning feels bad that he’s left his shoes on in a carpeted area.

“Mm,” Malfoy hums by way of response, clearly not up for conversation. His quicksilver eyes are surveying the bedroom and dart about. It slightly unnerves Harry.

“Do you, er, know?”

“What?”

“That is, know where to look.” Harry says by way of explanation, referring to the way Malfoy seems to have instinctually known where to search last time. At the time he found it strange but chalked it up to Malfoy’s innate oddness and soon forgot about it. Now, the memory’s at the forefront of his brain, and he rather hopes Malfoy can pull that off again. He wants to get out of here and the sooner the better.

Silver hair flashes as the former Slytherin whips around to look at him. Those grey eyes are narrowed in an expression Harry has seen many times. “I’m not some type of niffler for potions, Potter.”

Harry can feel his cheeks heating. “Yeah, but—“

“Stop while you’re ahead.”

Harry glares at him, but obliges. Leave it to Malfoy to go and _brood_ and be so bloody emotional about everything. What was his deal, anyway? He suddenly feels annoyed, both at himself and at the other man.

The annoyance begins to evaporate as he watches Malfoy’s nimble fingers make work of going through Beatrice’s bedroom, opening jewelry boxes, the large armoire, and even a few drawers of her nightstand. There’s still residual pettiness that tempts him with the urge to remind Malfoy that it’s technically not within his rights to search the flat, but he tempers that down; the Hermione which exists inside his mind as a beacon of reason, praise, and logic is proud of him. It looks to be going uneventful before Malfoy glances over at the contemporary vanity in the corner and, pressing his lips together, begins to rife through the makeup case atop it. The ivory column of his throat bobs as he pulls out a plastic bag filled with purple powder. He’s holding it by the edge of his fingers as though it’s cursed.

“What is that? Are you sure you should be touching it?” Harry squints at it and takes a step back, just in case. Some sense of apprehension and self-preservation after defeating Britain’s resident dark wizard and genocidal maniac is one of the post-war perks.

Malfoy laughs mirthlessly and there’s a flash of something in those brilliant eyes; something Harry doesn’t know how to interpret and wants to see more of. “Did you retain nothing from Potions class, Potter? It’s alihotsy. Powdered alihotsy.”

*

“So what made you decide to get your mastery in Potions?”

They’ve decided to break for lunch at the chip shop Harry frequents with Morag – well, it wasn’t a decision made by the both of them, as Draco really actually insisted on going there. The insistence confused Harry to no end and annoyed him since he’d just been there a few days ago, but he can’t resist his chips and decided to oblige. Harry’s decided on his favorite curry sauce to accompany his chips and Malfoy, ever the aristocrat, has chosen smoked eggplant. Harry suppresses a smile as he watches him swirl his chip into the dipping. Posh fucking arse.

“I’ve always been gifted at the subject,” Malfoy replies before munching delicately. How he manages to make the act of eating look refined, Harry will never know. He’s stopped trying to figure it out after sixth year. Watching Malfoy eat is interesting –the way those shapely lips move, how he covers his mouth when he chews, the bob of his long, pale throat…

“Despite what you may have believed, Potter, Severus didn’t cut me any slack or favor me simply because he was my godfather. I just truly am _that_ gifted at the subject.” Harry ceases in the familiar act of watching his once-nemesis eat (which would be easier to do, really, if it wasn’t nearing pornographic—okay, he _really_ needs to get laid and soon) and rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m sure it had nothing at all to do with you both being Slytherins.” He retorts, shoving one of his own chips into his mouth, vinegar bursting on his taste buds immediately.

Malfoy shrugs. “Glad we’re on the same page, then.” That once-infuriating smirk is back.

“Why France though? You could’ve just done it at Hogwarts.”

“Could I.” A pale eyebrow arches, and Harry is just about to inform him that yes, he could have, McGonagall surely would have accepted him back when Malfoy interrupts, waving him off with an airy motion of the hand. “A change of scenery was much needed, in any case.”

Harry shovels several more chips into his mouth and chews thoughtfully, making sure to swallow before he continues the conversation, lest he become like Ron. “How was France? I’ve never, erm, travelled much.”

“Serene. Beautiful. Different from here in nearly every way.” Harry is keenly aware of Malfoy’s eyes watching him as he shoves more vinegary, fried goodness into his mouth; the other man is regarding him curiously. “Why do you eat like that?”

“Like what?” He can’t help the defensiveness which creeps into his tone.

“Like the food is going to somehow Vanish at any given moment.”  

His eating habits and table manners have always been a source of insecurity for Harry; yet another reminder that thanks to not only Voldemort but also the Dursley’s, he’ll never be truly normal. He had swapped out being considered weird in one world to being the exact same in another, except most people were far too kind to ever point out the odd mannerisms of their Saviour in the wizarding world. Ron and Hermione noticed, he knew, but he had never really delved deep into the Dursley’s treatment of him. They’ve just always believed they simply didn’t like him, and if they do suspect more, have never asked. It’s hardly surprising that Malfoy is the one to ask such a loaded question, even if the other man doesn’t know how deep it truly goes.

“Dunno. Didn’t have much food at times growing up,” he replies shortly, suddenly very preoccupied with a stain on the checkered tablecloth. Malfoy makes a noise of surprise.

“Your relatives were poor?”

“Something like that.” Desperate to change the course of the conversation before he gets further caught in a web of lies, Harry continues. “That was something, eh? Beatrice’s flat.” Malfoy nods his agreement, spearing several chips with his fork. “Hard to believe someone like her could get caught up in—well, that.”

Malfoy glances at him, eyes narrowed in interest. “Someone like her?” His nostrils flare, an act unsuited for his Patrician nose. “You feel sympathy for her.”

Harry gapes at him. “Of course I do Malfoy, that’s part of my bloody _job_ —“

“But you don’t for Alexander William, did you? I hardly remember you reacting this way when we visited _his_ flat.” Malfoy interrupts harshly. He takes a deep breath before continuing. Harry thinks he may have been counting to ten mentally. “You can’t feel sympathy – or empathy, rather – for some and disregard others. Have the same compassion towards all of them, or don’t at all.”

Malfoy spears his fork harshly through the softness of a now soggy chip. The rest of their lunch passes in relative silence.

*

Friday means Pub Night, and Harry can’t be more grateful for the weekly opportunity of drinking to forget with his best friends. The choice tonight is a Muggle dive that Ron loves because of the billiards table in the back; the food is subpar, much to Hermione’s voiced disapproval, but to Harry chips are the same anywhere; even if he _did_ just eat them for lunch today.

“And then one of them sent a blaster straight at him, but Tone fucking _somersaulted_ out of the way! Bloody brilliant, I swear! I dunno how he did it but there wasn’t even a scratch on him!” Ron is three pints in and overly excitable as always, and as he gleefully recounts how Anthony Goldstein barely managed to cheat death in the field, Harry finds himself reaching to take a heavy swig from his own pint. He knows Ron will let him see the file for their Death Eater case and his stomach is already clenching at the thought. His own case being non-violent in nature is truly an abnormality in itself, but Harry is grateful; he’s never had the stomach for gore, pre or post war, like Morag does. The cruelties humans are capable of often embed themselves in his mind to resurface some nights, accompanied by the familiarity of war traumas. Pub Night is a welcome break from the horrors that await him and Ron at work but Harry knows that they aren’t healthy in nature and can’t last forever – Hermione had said as much to him, numerous times.

“How’s work treating you Harry?” Ron asks through a mouthful of crisps. Hermione scoots a fraction away from her boyfriend to avoid being sprayed with crisp crumbs and artichoke dip.

“I can’t believe I’m working with Malfoy,” Harry says for what might be the fifth time the past hour alone. “It’s not completely shit, either, if I’m being honest.” Hermione says nothing but smiles into her cider. The blue eyes of his best friend widen with interest.

“So he’s not the same since school, then?” Ron’s face is twisted in drunken confusion, as though the very thought that Malfoy has changed since Hogwarts is too impossible to even wrap his mind around. Harry can relate; sometimes he can’t believe it himself.

“Are any of us the same after Hogwarts?” Hermione counters, her sharp eyes on Harry. He knows that look and Hermione well enough to know that she’s trying to suss out information, not out of (much) nosiness but for the simple reason she doesn’t like to leave _anything_ unsolved. Some people knit, or write, or play Quidditch. Hermione’s hobby has always been learning as much as there is to learn about everything.

Harry also knows himself well enough to know that he won’t give Hermione whatever it is that she’s looking for, but she’ll ultimately have it figured out before him. Maybe she does now, which would help him tremendously, as he doesn’t even know what she’s trying to figure out. Thinking about it hurts his brain. “He’s still a bastard,” he assures them, grinning as Ron’s shoulders sag with relief and ignoring the look of disapproval Hermione shoots his way. “But he’s different now, too. Dunno how to really explain it though.”

Ron seems to take that as a good answer, shrugging as he mutters about what a ‘poncey git’ Malfoy was and still is. Hermione takes a delicate sip of her cider and Harry notices that a few stray curls have escaped from her loosely woven plaits. He tucks one behind her ear and as she sends him a small smile of gratitude he’s overcome with love for his best friends. To make it out of a war together, relatively unscathed, and to now live in solitude without the threat of a madmen hanging over their heads is a privilege he’ll never take for granted. The odds were small, but they’ve made it.

“So, Harry,” Hermione begins, swirling her cider glass. “I guess work has provided an ample distraction from Oliver, yeah?” The tried-and-failed casual tone never fools Harry, but he nearly chokes on his pint anyway. He’d forgotten all about Oliver since…since the assignment of his case, really. Work has never really been a distraction for him – he’s sought enough distractions to divert his attention _from_ work most days – but he can see Hermione’s point and, by extension, why people like Morag throw themselves fully into it. Besides, his fling – which was really the best way to describe what they had – was more physical than emotional, and it wasn’t as though they were madly in love with each other. Not much for him to seek a distraction from.

“Er, yeah, I s’pose. I mean, I’ve been busy, but…yeah.” He shrugs his shoulders before concerning himself with the bowl of wasabi peas in front of him.

A knowing smile graces Hermione’s lips. “New friends help too, I’m sure.”

 _New friends_? Harry chews the flavorful snack thoughtfully as he tries to parse her statement, but Hermione’s wit, no matter how many ciders she’s had, is no match for his hopelessly intoxicated mind. His sober mind, too, though there are some good days where he can actually keep up with what she’s talking about. There aren’t any new friends that he’s aware of; maybe Morag told Hermione about their lunch at the chippie? “Erm, yeah? Yeah, I guess they do,” he shrugs again, deciding to just go with it rather than trying to figure out whatever’s going on. His pint glass is nearly empty and he kills the rest of it, leaving his fingers damp with condensation as he sets the cold glass down.

Harry is content to let his mind wander and immerse himself in the buzz of conversation around him, chuckling occasionally at whatever ‘Mione and Ron are going on about. He’s more preoccupied with thoughts of work – a practice forbidden during the sacred ritual of Pub Night – and how, exactly, Malfoy’s changed. The words Malfoy spoke over lunch earlier flash through his mind as dark brows knit together; the former Slytherin showing compassion and empathy towards anyone is a new development, but there’s something else there too that Harry can’t quite figure out. His gut feeling tells him it’s not something wonderful, though it’s nowhere near as sinister as the hunch he’d had of Malfoy becoming a Death Eater during sixth year.

“Why do you think Malfoy left for France? Reckon something happened?” He hadn’t meant to blurt it out, but it’s out there now, and as Harry would rather not Obliviate his friends he can’t take the words back. He can feel a dark flush creep up his neck as Ron and Hermione exchange another Look. It’s one Harry’s familiar with, having seen it for the better half of being a sixteen year old.

“It’s like we’re in sixth year all over again.” Hermione notes to no one in particular. She rolls her eyes at the glare he sends her, as though to say ‘ _what? It’s true and you know it’_. There’s no way for Harry to disprove the unsaid statement without looking even crazier, so he keeps glaring. Being three pints in he’s sure it’s not his most threatening and Hermione’s giggle confirms it.

Ron groans, muttering a string of words to himself under his breath that serve to amuse Hermione further. He rubs a large, freckled hand over his face before clapping Harry on the back with it. “Mate,” Harry feels himself being pulled closer to his best friend in a loose hug that only drunk people seem to be familiar with. “Look, I can’t believe I’m about to say this, and you can hex me if I’ve got it wrong, but—d’you think there’s something— _there—_ you got for Malfoy?” At his friend’s evident confusion, Ron’s face reddens until it is in near competition with his hair, the constellation of freckles a splotchy mess. “Like—like feelings, or even Merlin help me, an attraction. I guess he’s not an ugly bloke if you’re into…that.” The words look like they physically hurt Ron to say and Harry is once again overcome with love for one of his best friends at the simple fact that he tried, even though he couldn’t be more wrong. Liking Malfoy? He can admit that objectively, Draco Malfoy is attractive. The pointiness has paved the way for an angular, chiseled attraction, but to suggest that Harry is _attracted_ to _him_ is laughable.

So Harry laughs, punching Ron on his broad shoulder. “You sure one of those Death Eaters didn’t hit you with a Confundus instead? Honestly, Ron, thinking I fancy _Malfoy_?”

Ron shares another Look with Hermione who remains pointedly silent. “Er, yeah, I’m just saying, Harry. I know you, like. You’ve always been sort of…weirdly fixated on him, and it’s the same way with him and you.”

“It was a school rivalry, mate. Come off it.” That does the trick, and the trio is silent as they leave their Muggle money at the table before leaving the pub. The night air feels cold on Harry’s skin, a welcome sensation after the heat of being packed inside a crowded area. Ron’s got his arm around Hermione as he stumbles onwards, pulling her close to him. He gives Harry a sloppy hug and then disbands to lean against the stone wall of the establishment, muttering about finding his sunglasses.

“Should I remind him that he’s left them at home, or let him wonder?” Hermione smirks up at Harry as her eyes travel over to where Ron is. Harry snorts.

“Not like he’ll remember tomorrow.”

She nods in agreement and more curls fall loose from their holdings. Neither of them moves to brush the stray hairs back. Instead, Hermione tiptoes and kisses Harry on a stubbled cheek, her lips warm against his skin. “He didn’t mean anything negative by what he said back in there, you know.”

And Harry nods, because he does know. Ron has been nothing but supportive of him with everything since they were eleven. The chances of him slipping and fucking that up now, over a decade later, are relatively slim. But that doesn’t mean Ron is suddenly correct in his assumption that Harry is apparently secretly in love with Malfoy, well intentioned or not.

The prospect of being attracted to _Malfoy_ is preposterous enough and one that Harry considers even after Apparating back to the comfort of his bedroom. Sure, Malfoy is attractive on parchment, with his long legs, slim but toned physique, and angular features. The way he dresses is nice too, although Harry’s never been one for fancy clothing, but the way the material fits on that body is attractive; it’s what clothing should do, right?

Finding Malfoy attractive in a general sense is one thing. He is only human, after all, and attraction to the flesh is different than attraction to the person. Being attracted to _Malfoy_ as a whole means looking past, or at least being okay with, everything he’s done. Deeds which might not have been committed by Malfoy himself but certainly led to destruction and heartbreak and death nonetheless, and while Harry finds it possible to move on – not forgive – from the war and his misdeeds, he doesn’t know if anything more is possible.

“Stop considering it, you dolt. You just need to get laid again.” He says to no one in particular as he climbs into bed. _Someone_ he knows has to have an interest in a mutually beneficial agreement.

Sleep takes hold of him immediately, with dreams of silver and grey flashing through his mind, intangible and teasing at the edge of his memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh harry can u BE more oblivious babe??? denial isnt just a river for our boys. and yes i shamelessly took names from hogwarts mystery lmfao


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i earn my E rating, tho it might not be what u expect, sorry! ;)

“Men are the sport of circumstances, when the circumstances seem the sport of men.”

- **Lord Byron**

Monday morning finds Draco arriving at Potter and Macdougal’s office at eight thirty sharp. Bones gives him an odd look upon noticing him, and he reflects that perhaps there is such a thing as _too_ punctual; the office remains empty but Macdougal can be expected in ten or fifteen minutes, and Potter likely will stumble in sometime after nine, nursing a coffee or tea. Draco is aware that being on time on a Monday is a feat that many find near impossible, but after the weekend he’s had which consisted of attempting to dodge letters and invitations from Mother – and ultimately failing, because she’d apparently given Antigone firm instructions to _not_ take no for an answer, leading to the bloody bird picking at him until he assured he could be expected at dinner – the mundane routine of work is almost one he welcomes.

The past two days had also been lacking in the Potter department; while he didn’t quite _miss_ the spectacled wanker, Draco found that the other man entered his thoughts on a semi-frequently basis as he caught himself wondering how Potter would think or react to certain situations Draco encountered. That line of thinking being something shared with Pansy and Blaise as well, but he and Potter are hardly friends, thus making such thoughts inappropriate. Thinking about Potter outside of work in a friendly, casual context is a dangerous game, even if the days of their animosity are mostly long passed.

The doors burst open to reveal the very man Draco has been trying not to think about. Of course Potter is surprisingly early today. His robes look to be curiously pressed, with all of the usual lines smoothed out of them, and gone are the Muggle t-shirts that their Hero favors. The sudden professional attire has Draco doing a double-take which he hopes is discreet.

“Morning, Malfoy.” Potter greets with a nod in his direction, flashing him a small smile that showcases a line of white, even teeth.

“You’re early.”

Potter does that modest shrug he’s known for and which once upon a time, would have served to irritate Draco. Such a gesture can easily be mistaken for cocky or perhaps even arrogant, but now Draco knows that Potter truly _is_ modest and humble to the point of it being annoying. “Yeah, I thought I would get here early. I have some stuff to take care of today.”

He doesn’t sound entirely confident in that, but fuck it if Draco will be the one to point that out. He merely nods, though he’s unable to resist the urge to raise a silvery brow. “Right. Best to make sure everything is sorted.” With that, Draco goes back to one of his favorite morning activities – attempting to finish the crossword in the _Quibbler_ , which is more difficult than he’d like to admit – in the hopes of ending their conversation and in doing so cease any errant thoughts about Potter’s newfound professional attire. It is a look that suits him well, and despite his emotionally restrictive upbringing, Draco is only human.

Through his lashes Draco sees bronze hands slide into trouser pockets. Potter is rocking back and forth in his trainers in no doubt a way he perceives as casual but is very much the opposite. There’s a nervous energy in the enclosed space of their office now, and Draco doesn’t much like it; whatever his coworker is planning, he would like to know. Surprises, and by extension the act of being surprised, demonstrate a frustrating lack of control and having already been left in the dark about certain matters once, and suffering still for it, Draco can’t say he’s fond of not having the upper hand.

“Well?” he sets his quill down, raising his eyes to meet Potter’s. Green meets grey and for a second Draco is startled by the sheer vibrancy of the emerald. Have they always been so intense? He shakes that thought away; surely it just must be the morning light. “Do tell me you have more productive tasks on the agenda aside from acting like a third year about to ask his crush to Hogsmeade for the first time, Potter.”

Potter blinks, and then a sheepish smile overtakes his face. A hand makes its way from his pocket to run through the mess that is his hair, and Draco watches as several midnight strands fall loosely around his face. “Oh! Erm, yeah. I was just—me, Ron, and Hermione have this thing. Every Friday is pub night, it’s kind of a tradition, at this point. And I was thinking, it’s fun, like. And you’re still a huge bastard, but it’s really fun and I think you’d enjoy yourself.”

Only his tongue, pressed firmly against his teeth, prevents Draco’s mouth from dropping open. There are too many variables here to consider for him _not_ to be shocked. The idea of a pub night with Weasley and Granger being one of them; the second being the awkward, almost shy way Potter asked him just now. His earlier comparison to the hypothetical third year runs through his mind, and Draco wills himself not to flush. “Pub night,” is all he can repeat, somewhat dumbly. His eyes narrow at Potter, who runs a hand through his hair again, leaving it messier than before. The muscles in his arm flex at the action and Draco steels his gaze away.

“Yeah, we go to Muggle pubs to avoid…well, you know.” There’s a slight defiance in the way Potter says the word’ Muggle’ as though daring him to disapprove. Draco resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“Does Macdougal go to these pub nights?”

Potter shakes his head by way of answer. “No,” he says, quite redundantly. His eyes narrow a fraction at the question though Draco isn’t sure why – Morag Macdougal is someone he would like to chat with over a couple of drinks, and she has the positive quality of not being completely insufferable while sober either. “Not for lack of trying though. Morag says she’s got better things to do than drink at the pub.”

At this, Draco snorts. “Don’t we all,” he mutters. His lips tug into a frown. “Not that I don’t appreciate the invitation, Potter, but are you sure Granger and Weasley even want me there?”

“Yeah!” Potter says way too emphatically, as though the lot of them were school mates who drifted as opposed to victims of Draco’s bullying at the best of times, and prisoners in his family’s Manor at his worst. “They know that everything’s changed. You too, in some ways, even if you still are a posh wanker most of the time.”

Draco ignores the jibe. “Right,” he replies faintly. This day is already shaping up to be far too surreal.

“Right,” Potter repeats firmly. “So, it’s settled then? Will I be seeing you this Friday?” His lips quirk into a small smile, and at Draco’s minute nod, widen into a blinding, confident grin worthy of James Potter without the arrogance. Draco finds he is unable to look away and Potter’s brilliant eyes, in turn, remain locked on his.

It’s a silent conversation they’re carrying, one that goes beyond the quick glances and death glares exchanged during their adolescent years, and Draco doesn’t know how to decode this. _Something_ has shifted, and the thought alone is vaguely frightening.

“Christ, Potter, how did you get here so early? Did you sleep here overnight?” Macdougal says by way of greeting several minutes or an eternity later, her incredulous voice breaking Draco out of the absorption of Potter’s eyes. He quickly schools his features and averts his gaze but not before he suspects he’s been caught; her hawk-eyes have definitely sniffed out Potter, who jumped at the intrusion and is now adjusting his collar. Macdougal glances between them, eyebrows raised in curiosity. “Sorry boys, am I interrupting anythi—“

“No,” Potter interrupts quickly. “You’re fine. I just came earlier to take care of some stuff, you know how it is.”

Macdougal, in turn, shoots him a glance that shows she isn’t convinced in the least. Draco bites the inside of his cheek and goes back to the _Quibbler_ crossword, bowing his head as he fills in a blank with ‘ _wrackspurt’_. Journalism is a futile, predictable field these days it seems.

There’s the squeaking of a chair which suggests Macdougal has just heaved herself into comfort at her own desk; Draco is not taking any chances by raising his eyes to check, not after experiencing whatever _that_ was between him and Potter.  “Hey, Malfoy,” she calls over to him, causing Draco to stiffen over his crossword puzzle. “Fancy getting lunch together today?”

His face remains composed except for the owlish blink he gives her. “Sure.”

Potter glances between them in barely concealed curiosity, and Draco can’t help but wonder what it is, exactly, that he’s agreed to.

*

The canteen is crowded but sluggish in the way that nearly everything is on a Monday. Or perhaps this is just the natural order of things. Draco, having avoided the space since starting this job, wouldn’t know. There are far less stares than he was expecting, but a few heads still turn to look at him with open and obvious distaste, not even bothering to lower their voices as he passes.

_Death Eater. Coward. Scum._

To his surprise, Draco is largely numb to it now. He’s far from immune – on some level, this does bother him and deeply so, but he suspects his brain has numbed any emotional response in order to spare what remains of his sanity. Macdougal doesn’t offer so much a glance in the direction of her coworker’s shocked faces, and instead keeps her head held high as she leads them to a corner table away from prying eyes and ears.

“So,” she begins, attacking her baked chicken and mashed potatoes with vigor. “Tough day.” Macdougal’s movements are jerky, opposite to her usual confident air; a testament to the day they’ve had so far. Draco can only nod in response, his eyes focusing on the salad in front of him. He has no appetite but he’ll try and force himself to eat at least half of the salad. The aroma of the lightly spiced chicken wafts out from Macdougal’s tray, warm and delicious, but today it serves to only further dampen what little of his appetite remains.

‘Tough day’ is an understatement. What had started off as a pleasant strangeness soon delved into horribly unfortunate as Macdougal received the news that Haywood, their victim, had passed at St. Mungo’s. Potter had left the room for a few minutes and Draco was torn between the bizarre urge of following him or remaining where he was. In the end, he chose to stay at his desk with Macdougal; he never was very in touch with his emotions and so he doubted he could even provide Potter with the comfort he needed.

Haywood’s death did provoke something in him, though. A niggling voice in the back of his head, a constant whisper, taunting him with the knowledge that just five years ago that _could have been him_. It’s a thought that doesn’t sit well with Draco; in fact, it shakes him nearly to the core.

“Potter doesn’t handle death well,” Macdougal is saying, and Draco blinks out of his reverie. She takes a swig from her water bottle and wipes her mouth. “Not that any of us love it, of course. We all have our different ways of handling it, but Potter…he tends to be emotional about it.”

Draco raises his eyes to meet hers. “I can’t imagine why that is.” His voice comes out colder than he anticipated and he winces inwardly. He didn’t come here for a fight.

Macdougal rolls her eyes. “I _know_ why. We all do. It’s just that I don’t think he’s caught on yet that he can’t save everyone. It’s a nice thought to have but far from realistic, and if you enter your career as an Auror thinking that, then you’ve chosen the wrong path.”

That he can agree with. In his younger years Draco found Potter’s obsession with playing the hero self-serving and reckless. It still is something which the former Gryffindor carries on with the reckless abandon typical of his House, but there’s something more to his hero complex that Draco now, as an adult, can recognize as broken. Why he even chose to become an Auror after hunting a madman since childhood, Draco will never understand. He spears a cherry tomato with more force than intended and sighs as tomato juice bleeds out onto his lettuce, effectively destroying what little of his appetite he had left. “Have you told him that?”

He doesn’t care about Potter’s feelings towards his career, really. It’s just that no one should work a job that they’re not happy with.

“There’s no point if he won’t listen. People like to see what they want to, Malfoy. It’s a choice he’ll have to make himself, if and when he wants to.”

Choice is a concept Draco is familiar with. “Good luck with that,” he mutters under his breath. He nudges his tray away from him, not wanting to look at food any longer. “Potter’s skull is an immovable object on its own. His stubbornness knows no bounds, unfortunately.”

Macdougal barks out a laugh. It’s a harsh, short sound. “Right,” she concedes, moving to Vanish away her finished tray of food. Her lips are curled in amusement. “And you aren’t, which is why the two of you are definitely not dancing around whatever you have going on.”

“There’s nothing going on. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Macdougal.” He snaps, suddenly overcome with the urge to leave the canteen. Pansy and Blaise teasing him about Potter is one thing – they have been his best friends since childhood and as loathe as he is to admit it, have earned the right. Macdougal, on the other hand, is nothing to him beyond a coworker.

“Sure there isn’t.”

“I’m glad we can agree.” He says snottily and Vanishes his own tray of untouched salad away, ignoring the stab of guilt at wasting perfectly good food.

“He wouldn’t shut up about you when we went to lunch.”

“Macdougal,” Draco says in a strained voice, cringing inwardly at this small display of vulnerability. “Nothing exists between Potter and I, nor has there ever, besides animosity. What we have is a tenuous friendship at most.”

Nothing more can exist between them anyway. Draco knows that much.

She blinks, understanding flashing in her eyes as her face softens fractionally. After casting a quick Tempus charm, she gives him an unreadable look. “We should start heading back.”

Draco is all too happy to follow.

*

The Floo roars to life and Draco steps out of it, thankful that his father is insistent that the elves clean the fireplace twice, sometimes thrice, a day. That’s about as far as his gratitude extends; his family home brings back feelings he would rather forget, culminating in a nice cocktail of dread, apathy, and anxiety. Not for the first time he wonders about the benefits of leaving his ancestral home behind completely – it would surely act as a balm to his soul more than a Calming Drought ever could.

The loud _pop_ signaling Tilly’s arrival breaks him out of his thoughts. “Young Master Draco!” the elf exclaims, prostrating her small, frail body in a bow before him. The way his father seems to thrive off of complete submission, even now, never fails to make him uncomfortable. “You will be coming with me! Mistress Narcissa and Master Malfoy be requesting your presence in the dining room!”

He nods and follows woodenly behind the elf. The dining room, despite the redecorations Mother bestowed upon it, will forever be a room he’ll try to avoid. How his family can eat in there after the countless monstrosities the room has seen is beyond him. The sound of faint classical music reaches his ears and Draco bites down a scowl; of course his Mother has pulled out all the stops for such a meal, likely orchestrated by Father, who still cannot look past his own perceived importance.

The love for his father wears thin these days, based more on memories of Lucius than the man he is now.

“Master Malfoy, Mistress Narcissa,” Tilly bows once again in greeting the master of the house. “Young Master Draco has arrived!”

His mother is saying something, but Draco’s attention is focused solely on the young girl that sits at the table, flanked by her family. Dread coils around his stomach like a snake, like the way Nagini did to Professor Burbage as she _squeezed_ —

“Darling,” Mother’s cool hand against his cheek snaps him out of it. There’s worry in her eyes but she’s looking at him reproachfully, no doubt disappointed he’s forgotten his manners in lieu of a panic attack. The smell of her powdery perfume, heavy in her embrace, grounds him. “You remember the Greengrasses, don’t you? I believe you had lessons with their eldest daughter, Daphne.”

The death glare his father is shooting his way forces Draco to remember his words. “Yes, we did.” He extends his hand out to the Greengrass patriarch, a small, round man with receding hair. His hand is met in an eager shake. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Greengrass.”

“I assure you Draco, the pleasure is all ours! Please, call me Osmund.” _Osmund_ wheezes a laugh and pumps Draco’s hand again. Draco decides that he doesn’t much like him. “This is my wife, Cordelia, and I presume you’re acquainted with my lovely daughter Astoria?”

Astoria Greengrass stands and dips into a low curtsy. She’s beautiful, with a slender figure that curves in the right places, a small, heart shaped face framed with large blue eyes and hair that curls past her bosom. As he takes her hand to kiss it, Draco can only wish he was interested in her. Astoria lets out a breathless giggle, looking up at him from under the heavy fan of her dark eyelashes.

“Ah, Lucius, such good breeding!” Osmund enthuses to Father, who smirks behind his wineglass. What a small comfort, to know that in the aftermath of everything, money can always buy favor. The notion makes Draco sick but is ultimately unsurprising.

“Yes,” Father concedes, swirling his glass of wine. “I fear that in such…new and turbulent times, _tradition_ has been largely disregarded. Yet I remain firm in my beliefs that it will always have a place in society.”

The fact that Father still prefers to sugarcoat such terms is laughable. ‘Tradition’ is a word Draco is familiar with, as is its sister, Duty; in the dictionary which only exists in Lucius Malfoy’s mind, tradition exists to refer to ideals gone out of practice since the end of the War, mainly Pureblood supremacist ideals.  The elves march in carrying plate after plate of food, but Draco once again has lost his appetite.

Mother, Cordelia, and Astoria all remain dutifully silent while the men discuss business, a conversation Draco chooses to observe instead of partake in. What his father has orchestrated here is stunningly predictable and mentally he berates himself for not having seen it sooner, despite knowing that this was a possibility ever since Father’s release from Azkaban.

His own preference for men is something Draco’s been aware of since he was fourteen, after Pansy kissed him after the Yule Ball. He had inklings of it before that – girls had never caught his interest, try as they might – but he had always believed, as a child, that he would marry Pansy anyway. It was simply expected of him. Then that kiss had happened and he felt nothing; not a spark, not disgust, nothing. He told Pansy as much and she simply nodded, hugged him, and said she understood. Not that it really mattered, since the topic was barred from discussion and even now remains something the two of them don’t discuss openly.

Then fifth year arrived and with it, a drunken kiss between him and Blaise that soon escalated into almost-nightly hookups. There was no romance involved and the physical aspect was awkward and fumbling in the way that so many firsts between teenagers tend to be. They never discussed the terms of their relationship, as both chose not to acknowledge it, and by the beginning of sixth year his nights with Blaise were a thing of the past. Draco couldn’t bring himself to care much about anything beyond his survival, back then.

Liking men has always been something he’s regarded as fact. The sky is blue, two plus two equals four, and Draco Malfoy likes cock. To expect himself to be able to indulge in that preference is factually impossible, at least as long as Father is alive and well, thriving outside of Azkaban.

There had been a moment, during Father’s incarceration, of glimmering hope. A small possibility of living a life purely _Draco_ , living for no one’s expectations beyond the ones he set for himself.

That had soon gotten dashed as well. Hope never came easy for someone like him, anyway.

Astoria catches his eye and sends him a coquettish grin. Draco swallows the lump in his throat, feeling sick.

*

 _The Pink Lady_ is as lively as one could expect on a Monday night, but after the agonizing dinner he’s just had, Draco sorely deserves a night out. Pansy and Blaise remain at home, uninvited; he doesn’t fancy hearing Pansy lecture him about going back to places that ‘hold negative memories’ for him.

A laughable concept, really, when at this point nearly everywhere he goes has a less than desirable memory attached. If his own ancestral home remains the embodiment of trauma, a club where he used to engage in snorting alihotsy and other debauchery is a slice of treacle tart.

He takes a seat the bar and slides his Muggle bill toward the bartender. “Scotch, no ice.”

There’s a laugh from the stool next to him and Draco swivels to glare at the source. The man seated next to him raises his hands in mock surrender and the easy gesture does nothing to calm his annoyance. “I didn’t mean anything by it bruv. Rough night?”

Draco shrugs an elegant shoulder. “You can say that.” He’s proud of himself for not giving in to the urge to say _I’m not your bruv._

The stranger is lithe and shorter than him, with golden skin and dark, wavy hair that reaches a little past his shoulders. His eyes are hazel and bright without the confines of glasses.

In the recesses of his mind, this man reminds Draco of someone, but his consciousness would never allow him to admit it. He drinks his Scotch with ease when it comes, reveling in the burn in the back of his throat.

“Wow.”

“What?” Draco snaps at his companion for the night before pasting on a smile as he waves over the bartender. A dark hand shoots out and covers his, effectively forcing it down. A pale eyebrow raises. “Manhandling me now, are you?”

“If you want,” comes the cheeky response. Draco looks away to hide his flush, no doubt brought on by the Scotch which is rapidly warming his chest. “Nah, I’m improving your night.” Draco watches as he throws some Muggle bills onto the counter. “Two shots of tequila please. Oh, and salt and lime too if you’ve got it.”

“I can’t very well drink tequila after _Scotch_.”

“’Course you can. What’s your name, anyway?”

Draco eyes the drinks warily as they arrive. He tentatively goes to sniff one before feeling that warm hand grasp his wrist firmly again. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, ignoring the way his companion’s eyes glint in the low light of the club and make his heart clench painfully. “Are we meant to be admiring them instead of drinking, then?”

“No. There’s a way to do it. Salt,” his unnamed annoyance shakes some salt onto his palm and sucks some of the small flakes into his mouth, never once breaking eye contact. Draco, to his embarrassment, feels his breath hitch. “Tequila.” He watches, entranced, as the other man downs the strong liquid before grimacing and chasing it down with the acidic burn of lemon. “Lemon.”

Somehow they’ve ended up closer. Draco blinks, not recalling who made the first move. He can feel the breath of the other man in small puffs against his cheek. Wordlessly, he copies what he observed just now, wincing at the taste of cheap alcohol before licking his lips in hopes that the taste of lemon will chase it away.

“You learn fast.”

“So I’ve been told,” Draco smirks in response. He signals the bartender over again, watching as she expertly pours more tequila into their empty shot glasses. He’ll regret this in the morning he’s sure, but there’s nothing a good Hangover Potion can’t fix.

“I asked for your name.” The other man’s breath is hot against his ear and Draco represses a shiver.

“My name is Draco. Like the dragon.”

“Oh?” Dark eyebrows raise in curiosity and amusement. “Are you hung like one, then?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” This time, before taking his shot, Draco pours the salt onto the outstretched hand of the man who looks like will be his lover for the night. Slowly and deliberately, he licks it off, keeping his eyes on the stranger’s the whole time.

He downs his shot and sucks the juice out of the lemon, licking his lips after. Silver hair falls in front of his face as he inclines his head towards the direction of the bathroom before sliding off the stool and crossing the dance floor to get there.

The men’s bathroom is empty and cold against his skin, a welcome contrast to the heat at the bar. He’s left alone for nearly two minutes before the door bursts open and just like he expected, his newfound friend comes trailing in after him. Draco smirks at him through hooded eyes. “You’re a fast learner.”

“I know.” In a flash Draco feels himself being pinned against the wall as the stranger kisses him, hot and desperate and passionate, his tongue licking slow, deliberate strokes into the heat of Draco’s mouth. Moans fill the air and Draco doesn’t know if they’re coming from him or not, and he can’t bring himself to care. The simple act of being with a man comes to him so naturally, thoughtlessly, even if this mystery man’s hair doesn’t curl the right way and his eyes aren’t that shade of emerald green.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Draco hisses as he feels the other man’s arousal rub against his own. His pants are impossibly tight and he rubs himself against the other’s cock in a desperate attempt to chase that delicious friction. Meeting up in bathrooms and frotting against one another is painfully reminiscent of fifth year but after being celibate for so long, Draco is hardly one to complain.

The other man pulls away and laughs at the whine that leaves Draco’s throat and causes a flush to dust his cheeks. Draco watches, heart thumping in his chest, as the man sinks to his knees and expertly undoes the buttons and zipper on his trousers before fishing Draco’s cock out of his boxers. He’s fully hard and leaking now, much to the delight of the other man who licks a slow stripe up his length. Draco glares.

“Get on with it.”

The stranger winks at him before taking the whole length in his mouth, extracting a strangled moan from Draco. Pale hands fist themselves in dark hair as the man bobs his head up and down, eyes closed in ecstasy. Draco tugs harder, another cry escaping him as the man beneath him moans, sending vibrations along his cock.

“Your eyes,” Draco grits out, unashamedly thrusting into the heat of his mouth. “Open your fucking eyes.”

He likely sounds mad, but the stranger obliges, hazel eyes locking with grey. They aren’t the right color – Draco prefers a vibrant emerald over the muddiness of hazel – but they would do.

For one night, Draco can pretend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for all of the lovely comments! dw, the boys will come to their senses sooner or later. im just a slut for angst and slow burn ;)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for (very) minor character death. dun dun dunnnn

“Wanting is exhausting; in death have we let yearning go?”

- **Sina Queyras**

After the odd display of emotional vulnerability in front of his one-time enemy on Monday, the next few days pass uneventfully for Harry. He knew that Malfoy wouldn’t—couldn’t—belittle him for reacting the way he did about the Haywood girl’s death, not after witnessing so much death and destruction himself during the war (and in his childhood home no less), but it didn’t make Harry feel any better. Breaking down in front of Morag – thankfully a rare occurrence these days – is bad enough of an experience, as the woman may have brains to rival Hermione’s but ultimately possesses none of the warmth his best friend does. The occasional death of victims in a career such as his is largely unavoidable, but factual as it may be works to provide little comfort for Harry. In the end, Beatrice Haywood will go on to join the ranks of his parents, Cedric, Sirius, Lupin, Tonks, and the chorus of countless others who haunt the darkest parts of his mind and dreams.

Tuesday was mundane to the point where Harry, Morag, and Malfoy were stuck doing paperwork in the office. Well, he and Morag were—though Harry suspects that if Robards were to ask his partner, she’d be tempted to answer that _she_ did most of the paperwork, which wouldn’t be completely untrue. Malfoy had arrived on Tuesday morning looking vaguely hung over, which while a slightly unorthodox decision on his part, was one that Harry _definitely_ shouldn’t be mulling his mind over. Malfoy is an adult; even if it _is_ hard to admit that with the way the blonde git seemed to have reverted back to his old behaviors of completely ignoring Harry, except this time with the bonus of avoiding eye contact.

“Morag,” he’d whispered to his partner after Malfoy left the office, excusing himself to use the loo. “D’you think Malfoy is okay?”

Morag had been silent enough for Harry to think she wouldn’t bother responding, but then she had set her paperwork down and looked at him straight on, exhaustion etched into the planes of her face. “I suggest you worry about the case instead of dallying about whether or not Malfoy is mad at you, Harry,” she’d exhaled heavily before returning back to her work. The unspoken implication – that a girl was dead and there were more important things to focus on as a result – hovered heavy in the air and Harry wasn’t sure to be glad that it remained unsaid or not. He’d noticed her eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and coffee. Not for the first time, he thought about how much _better_ Morag was fit for this position as opposed to him.

Wednesday passed by in a similar fashion, and by Thursday, Harry is about ready to give up on everything altogether; his social life (Ron’s admittedly well-deserved bragging about how close he and Tony were to closing their case is still grating on Harry’s nerves, a whole day later), any flickering hopes of civility with Malfoy, and his rapidly nose-diving career. Having overslept, and then being made to deal with the elevators in the Atrium (evidently even magical modes of transportations have their malfunctions) he’s now five minutes late as he heads to the office. Being the Savior and the privileges rewarded are aspects of his identity which make Harry uncomfortable, but he can get behind this ‘Golden Boy’ schtick if it makes Robards not lecture him on tardiness the way he does Tony Goldstein.

“Potter!” Morag practically cries out as he enters their shared office, causing him to spill coffee over the front of his white button down; so much for the whole ‘dressing professionally’ thing. At his halfhearted glare, she rolls her eyes and casts a quick _Scourgify_ that nearly rivals Molly Weasley’s. “About time you’ve showed up. There’s been some interesting developments in the case.”

Beside her, Malfoy is leaning back on Harry’s chair with his legs crossed, wand spinning between his fingers in what is clearly a gesture of excitement. It’s amazing how much younger he looks when animated and not forcing his features into their usual haughty mask of indifference. Harry tries to think of a time when he last saw the blonde like this in recent years and finds he can’t. Maybe sometime around third year, or any time he spent with Zabini and Parkinson; even the smirks he’d sent Harry’s way in school were tinged with malice, unlike his current disposition of someone ready to burst with what they’ve learned. It reminds him of Hermione, just a little.

“I was able to interview Penny, Beatrice’s sister, about Beatrice. Certain things weren’t adding up. Her parents, in their interview, affirmed that potions usage was never a problem for Beatrice. She refused to even take so much as a Pepper Up Potion or use a Cheering Charm. So if our vic was on the straight and narrow path how did this happen?” Morag inhales, clearly waiting for Harry to play along. He nods to show he’s listening and she flashes him a pleased smile before continuing. “Naturally I called her in for another interview, this time with full honesty—oh, don’t give me that look Harry, Robards approved it—and lo and behold—“

Malfoy levitates the small bag of powder from Beatrice Haywood’s apartment in the air. Harry eyes it curiously before his gaze is drawn to the pale column of Malfoy’s throat, where a chuffed flush is creeping its way upwards. “I managed to trace the magical signature on this, and it matches Tulip Karasu of Karasu’s Green Thumb, an apothecary,” he proclaims, chin jutting out proudly.

Harry’s eyebrows knit together. “Er…I’m afraid I don’t follow.” Malfoy’s eyes are quicksilver and bright with the prospect of explaining further. Harry notices that his teeth are digging slightly into his plump lower lip in his eagerness, and he decides that excitement is a look he enjoys on the other man.

“The very apothecary where a certain Quintus Burke is employed. Mr. Burke being, of course, the man Penny admitted her sister used to score from.” Morag supplies, a proud glint in her eye.

Malfoy shifts. “Burke was supplying her with alihotsy when she bought potions from him.” Pain flashes across the patrician features, brief enough for Harry to wonder if he imagined it though he knows he didn’t. Something in his chest contracts and he’s overcome with the urge to figure out what exactly about this case, or this fresh information, is hurting Malfoy and how to ease it. There are battles that no one should fight alone; Harry knows that too well.

Harry isn’t aware he’s still staring at the former Slytherin until Malfoy meets his eyes. Malfoy presses his lips together and quickly averts his gaze, leaving Harry more confused than ever. _What was that about_? “Oh…wow, that’s great then. Well not great about what Burke was doing, but at least we know who’s involved now. Really narrows things down.”

“Really, Potter,” he can practically hear Morag rolling her eyes. “We’ve made a huge break in the case. Humor us and at least pretend to be grateful, won’t you?”

“I am—“ he’s beginning to protest when a careless flick of the witch’s wand has his lips moving into a smile on their own accord, a manic joy spreading through him. He’s overcome with the desire to laugh. _Fucking Cheering Charms._ “Macdougal, that was totally fucking foul!” He manages in between giggles and a full blown grin, overcome with annoyance and embarrassment at how much of a fucking nutter he must look.

Morag shakes her head, several strands falling loose from her ponytail. Harry wouldn’t be surprised if she slept here overnight. “Nope,” she says lightly, popping the ‘p’. “This will be another memory to add to the Pensieve.” Harry watches, some of his magically induced elation wearing away as she slings her bag over her shoulder and moves for the door. “Now, I’m going to check out the apothecary and talk to this Tulip. You and Malfoy can go to Burke’s apartment. He lives in Muggle London.”

His partner hovers in the doorway for a second and turns back to spare them a quick glance over her shoulder. “Try not to kill one another, boys.”

*

Muggle London is everything Harry knows it to be: crowded and loud, a modern metropolis which serves to exist, it seems, as a complete antithesis in some ways to Diagon and Knockturn Alley. They Apparate into an empty alley and while Harry is glad he’s left his robes behind, Malfoy is still dressed too formally to completely blend in. He can pass for a businessman at any rate; perhaps the traveling insurance salesmen that Petunia used to close blinds on. Harry stifles a laugh at the thought.

“You don’t look shocked to be here,” Harry notes as they walk out of the alley and onto a street. He’d expected Malfoy to be skittish and awed at the culture shock, maybe even a little scared. He certainly wasn’t expecting the unfazed, at-ease disposition Malfoy is exuding.

“I’ve been here before.”

“Really?” Harry can’t help his curiosity. The thought of Malfoy being in Muggle _anywhere_ is fascinating.

Malfoy shoots him a sidelong glance that doesn’t quite hide his annoyance. “Yes.”

“I didn’t think Muggle London would be your type of scene, is all.”

“Anonymity is a blessing.” Malfoy says curtly by way of explanation. Harry hums in agreement as that experience is one he knows all too well. The two continue to walk in silence down the winding streets that lead to Burke’s flat, passing a few buildings Harry vaguely remembers from nights out with Ron and Hermione. It’s weird to see them now, sober, walking alongside his former nemesis.

“Why’d you ask if Morag goes to pub nights?” Blurting out the question had not been part of his plan – there really wasn’t any type of plan to begin with, just bothersome curiosity – but once again his mind has conspired against him. Harry bites back a groan and resists the urge to Disapparate on the spot. Even his inner Hermione is disappointed and he in turn feels the disappointment twofold.

Malfoy’s light eyebrows furrow as he fixes Harry with that age old, familiar expression that suggests he thinks Harry is an idiot. He can’t blame Malfoy for that right now; he agrees with him. “Because I find her company pleasant,” he says slowly, as though explaining a difficult concept to a small child.

Harry suddenly feels tension building in the form of a strange tightness blooming in his chest. “Er, right, yeah. Yeah, she’s brill,” he runs a hand through his hair and is sure that it is sticking up in an array of directions, the London wind not really helping him in that matter. “I- I think she’s got a boyfriend though?” God, why did he say it like a question? His conversations with Cho Chang flash through his mind, unbidden, and Harry wishes he paid better attention during Snape’s shoddy Occlumency lessons so he could banish the memories of awkward teenage love away forever.

A hum of approval emits from Malfoy’s throat. “Good for her,” he drawls, but there’s an underlying skepticism to his tone that suggests he’s unsure why exactly Harry is providing this information. Harry decides to indulge him.

“They’re really in love, apparently. Well that’s what ‘Mione told me anyway, but he’s going to get her a Kneazle—or maybe he got it for her by now? I dunno. But Morag likes Kneazles, loves them, really, I know you’ve seen the calendar she has...so. I reckon it’s pretty serious, like.” There’s a sick sense of triumph he has over potentially destroying Malfoy’s interest in his partner, though even that doesn’t work to break up the tightness in his chest. Maybe yesterday’s pad thai went bad in the fridge.

“Potter,” Malfoy releases a long-suffering sigh. “Why are you telling me this? Surely there must be a reason you believe I care about Macdougal’s love life.”

“Just—so you wouldn’t make a move, you know, ‘cos that would be inappropriate,” Harry tries desperately to maintain a conversational tone, and internally curses his lack of emotional restraint when his voice comes out a huff. Malfoy’s shoulders are shaking in silent laughter.

“Well, rest assured, Potter. Macdougal is far from my type.” His lips quirk into the beginnings of a smirk.

Harry can’t help but fuel the fire now that he’s thoroughly embarrassed himself. “Because she’s Muggleborn?”

Malfoy snorts but his expression is once again closed off. Gone is the amusement from mere seconds ago. “No. It may be news to you, but there are levels of attraction beyond blood status, and I am not romantically inclined towards your coworker,” he says tersely, and Harry leaves it. Something in him feels inexplicably lighter at the revelation, and he chalks it up to being comforted that yet another two of his friends – if Malfoy  could be called that – won’t pair up, leaving him alone.

“Oh, we’re here!” The false cheer is forced and Malfoy knows it, judging by the eye roll towards the heavens. Any attempt to bring back a semblance of normalcy is needed, Harry thinks, though he does not pride himself on the pathetic excuse of casualness. His inner Hermione grows more disappointed by the moment, he reflects miserably. At the rate he’s going he seems to be channeling his inner Ron, which…as much as he loves his best mate, is not ideal for social matters.

They enter the apartment complex, Malfoy trailing behind him with thinly veiled disgust at the building. Harry is taken back to their first outing together at the William’s apartment and represses a fond smile. He is posh, and needlessly full of himself, but it’s amusing at least. Harry casts a Silencing charm around them wandlessly and knocks on the door of 2B. There’s not many passerby’s at this time and he’s all the more thankful; at least something is going right.

“Quintus Burke, Aurors from the DMLE, open up.”

No answer.

“Quintus,” Harry tries again in the calm voice he reserves for negotiations. “DMLE. Open, or we’re going to have to blast the door, and potentially break the Statue, and you don’t want to deal with that, mate.”

Silence.

Harry sighs. Thinking this would be easy – that anything would be easy – was his first mistake, apparently. Also clearly the same  mistake he’s been making since eleven years old. “Stay behind me no matter what, Malfoy,” he informs the blonde before casting a wandless Protego over him. The threat regarding the door was an exaggeration; a simple _alohomora_ would do but in their fear, criminals tended to believe him.

He taps his wand to the lock and it clicks open softly. Harry pushes through the doorway, not worrying that Malfoy hasn’t answered his request to remain behind him. Malfoy is an annoying git, but after watching him survive a war through sheer cowardice alone, Harry knows he won’t attempt anything stupid. Looking back the thought that adolescent Draco Malfoy was some type of evil mastermind is laughable.

The apartment is quiet. Everything is still and untouched inside – fresh takeaway on the table, the telly is on, there’s even a cup of tea on the counter – but Harry feels familiar unease seep into every pore. A quick _Homenum Revelio_ alerts him of three people’s presence in this particular apartment. Harry swallows around the lead lodged in his throat. He can feel Malfoy, stiff and tense behind him.

“Burke?”  Predictably there’s no answer. A cursory glance tells him that the apartment is tiny; it’s a little above a studio, and so there aren’t an abundance of rooms to hide in. He begins to move towards the bedroom. “Behind me,” he hisses again to Malfoy, who must understand the gravity of the situation because he offers no biting remark.

The bedroom, like the rest of the apartment, is not in disarray. It’s cluttered and unorganized in the lived in way that is typical of single males. Harry doesn’t notice the vials of potions lined up on the modest wardrobe, or the various Muggle pills stashed in clear plastic bags strewn about on the nightstand. His attention is immediately drawn to the body on the floor.

Glamour charms wear off post-mortem is his first thought.

That’s the only explanation he can think of, because the man on the floor is not reminiscent of the man in the photos that hang above the bedframe. A tall, dark haired youth in life does not equal a slight, sandy haired man in death. He’s immediately reminded of Tonks, mousy and small on the grounds of Hogwarts, eyes closed as though asleep, and Harry swallows another lump.

The dead man on the floor exudes familiarity and Harry can literally feel it on the tip of his tongue. Who is he? It’s been years since Hogwarts but the suspect-slash-victim appears to be his age. He racks his brain to piece together the parts to complete the wholeness of this person’s identity: sandy hair, hazel eyes, light freckles dusting his cheeks, handsome in the arrogant, elite way that Malfoy is, front teeth peeking out from a thin top lip—

A bizarre memory of Ron in fourth year, or maybe fifth, comes to mind; he had called Theo Nott ‘Babbity Rabbity’ after the boy laughed at a jibe regarding Hermione’s smile.

_Teeth._  

Theodore Nott.

_Fuck fuck fuck!_ “Malf—“ he begins, whirling around to warn his colleague not to come in, but it’s too late. Malfoy has always had a few inches on Harry, and he can see the grey eyes widen in recognition, then horror, as Malfoy is hit with the realization that his school friend lay dead on the floor in front of them.

The ivory of Malfoy’s throat bobs as he swallows. “Oh,” is all he says, softly, his eyes still boring onto Nott’s body. There’s no emotion behind it; it’s a simple ‘oh’ that one might say when nothing else comes to mind, and the dullness of the monosyllabic response makes Harry feel worse.

In a daze, Harry sends out his Patronus to alert the DMLE of the dead body’s presence. At some point of trying to conjure a happy memory under the less than positive circumstances, Malfoy has stumbled out into the living room. Harry finds him on the worn couch, staring blankly at nothing.

“Draco.” To refer to him as _Malfoy_ after what they’ve both just witnessed seems cruelly distant. Saying the given name feels foreign on Harry’s tongue after years of disuse, but it isn’t necessarily bad. He’d prefer it happen due to happier conditions, though. He joins Malf— _Draco_ on the couch. “I’m sorry.”

Draco makes a strangled noise. It might be a laugh. His eyes are still staring straight ahead at nothing. “No, you aren’t.”

And really, he’s right. Harry isn’t truly sorry; Nott’s father had been a Death Eater who, given the chance, would have rejoiced at the opportunity to kill him. Nott himself had been a right shit in school, bigoted and arrogant and rather than better himself ( _like Draco did,_ his mind supplies unhelpfully) he chose to once again inflict harm on others. 

Yet who Harry does sympathize with is Draco, for having been in the unfortunate position to discover the body of his former schoolmate. Death never gets easier to deal with, even after surviving a war and countless losses along the way. He wants it all to stop.

“Look—“ he begins, but is cut off by a jerky wave of Draco’s pale hand.

“It’s fine, Potter. Really. I don’t need…” he sighs heavily, his whole body sagging with the motion, and collapses onto the pillows.

Harry understands. Draco has never been the type to easily accept—any emotion besides anger directed towards him, really, so this should come as no surprise.

The rest of the DMLE should arrive shortly. It’s not so much common courtesy as it is protocol to wait around for them to collect the body, but this is a unique situation, and if Robards doesn’t dock Harry points for arriving to work late he doubts his boss will give him flack for what he’s about to do.

Well. He definitely will, but that’s when playing the Savior card comes in handy.

“Draco,” the silver head snaps up and levels Harry with a look so intense and full of indescribable emotion that for a second, Harry feels his breath catch. He swallows. “Want to go back to mine? This type of thing always calls for a drink.”

The contact between them is immediate, with Draco latching onto Harry’s arm like a drowning man to a lifeboat as he Apparates them to Grimmauld Place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SUPER grateful for all of the kind comments and kudos on this!! i love u all <3 here have some more angst and a not-quite cliffhanger?? muahaha. also yes i used more hogwarts mystery names lmao anyway someone pls stop me from posting chapters at ungodly hours (its 6 am here)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for pureblood typical homophobia and draco's own internalized homophobia. *drum roll* get ur seat belt on cuz A LOT OF SHIT HAPPENS. i almost had to cut this into two diff chapters lol.

“I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because romantic doesn’t mean sugary. It’s dark and tormented – the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain.”

**-Catherine Breillat**

Harry Potter’s house is the last place Draco’s ever expected to be, but then again, when he woke up for work this morning he wasn’t expecting to find his former housemate-turned-dealer’s dead body in a Muggle flat either.

Theo’s death makes him nauseous for a multitude of reasons. Death is a permanently final act – he’ll never again get the chance to chat with him, Theo’s coworkers will never see him in the flesh again, maybe the Muggles on the tube will look at an empty seat previously occupied and wonder where the occupant has gone. Will the people in his former friend’s new, Muggle life mourn him, or simply move on?  Theodore Nott hadn’t been a friend – not the kind that counts, anyway – to Draco in years but losing him forever still makes Draco feel heavy and numb, reminiscent of feelings he thought he’d buried during the war. In this peacetime era he’s given up on the act of preparing to lose someone, grateful in the fact that in tranquility the simple act of seeing a friend is no longer done so under the knowledge that it could be potentially the last time seeing them alive. Draco knows that a part of him will miss Theo always: who he was and who he wasn’t and who he could have been.

A smaller, vindictive and dark part of him is glad that the other man no longer exists and so can’t persuade others like Draco to go down a path he knows to be more of a spiral.

Potter clears his throat, the sound breaking Draco out of his reverie. “Well, we’re here.  I didn’t really get the chance to clean so that’s why it looks, erm, like this.”

The house isn’t dirty per se, but it’s clearly old and a thin film of dust covers everything. Potter living in a Victorian is strange and Draco adds it to the list of things he hadn’t expected for today.

“It’s fine, Potter.” Which it is, really, because Potter didn’t even have to extend an invitation. The act of inviting someone over is intimate, and Draco doesn’t normally do intimacy, but he doesn’t find he minds, today.

The brush of fabric against the pads of his fingers reminds him that he’s still latched onto Potter’s arm. Draco wills himself not to flush at the discovery and expertly avoids eye contact as he disentangles their limbs. Potter shifts on his feet, likely too embarrassed to lock eyes as well. As he moves out of the entryway and into the living room, Draco instinctively steps over the troll leg umbrella stand, repressing a scowl at the sight. _Nasty old thing_. He pauses in the doorway as he realizes what he just did- how had he known the stand would be there? There’s a familiarity to the home he can’t place but there are details he _remembers_ , like the hallowed troll leg and the numerous elven heads decorating the wall.

“Potter,” he says, and then louder when the prat doesn’t answer right away, “Potter. Whose house is this, real—“

Auror robes billow as Potter whirls around wildly, bringing a finger to his lips. “Shush! Don’t be too loud, not before I silence the fucking—“

Whatever Potter is about to say is cut off as horrible, pained screams fill the air. Draco feels his blood curdle as the screams rise in tempo and crescendo, bringing forth horrible memories of the dungeon and cold red eyes and maniacal cackles and snakes. He can feel his heart beating rapidly as his chest rises and falls, and for a moment he yearns for nothing more than to grab onto Potter before banishing such a vulnerable thought away.

“FILTH, STAINS OF DISHONOR, YOU DARE DISGRACE THE HOME OF MY FATHER WITH SUCH ABYSMAL _SCUM_!”

Draco can feel himself being dragged by Potter towards the source of the commotion and has the bizarre, intrusive thought that maybe he was brought here to be murdered. What a fitting end, to be killed by Harry Potter personally. The _Prophet_ would have a field day with that. “Potter,” he whispers, though it’s no use now that whatever they were apparently supposed to be avoiding heard them. “What the _fuck_ is going on in your house?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” Potter returns with a wry smile, traces of dry amusement in his voice. The incoherent shrieks and insults become louder as they stop in front of a portrait. It’s perhaps the most depressing portrait Draco has ever seen, and after living in the Manor with numerous paintings dating back to the 14th century, that’s saying something. The subject, a pallid old woman donned in the black attire and mourning cap traditional of widows, claws at her yellowed, sickly flesh as more shrieks erupt from her mouth, spittle flying from her lips as she did so. Draco can’t help but flinch back at the sight. Dark eyes snap open and the old woman eyes him sharply, her trembling lips pressing together as she does so. He thinks there may be a hint of grim approval in them.

“Is this the Malfoy heir? Cissa’s boy?” The aristocratic, drawling inflection gives no indication that the woman was previously screaming as though she was being tortured. Draco eyes her with curiosity, wondering not for the first time how portraits seem to know everything that goes on in the world they’re no longer a part of. The idea that Potter talks about him – though he’d really prefer if he wasn’t the topic of conversation with a clearly deranged widow – is almost endearing.

“Yes, it is.” Potter steps in front of him, effectively ending any chance of discussion before it begins; for once, Draco is grateful for the brashness. “Now it’s back behind the curtains for you, Walburga.”

“Walburga Black?” Draco questions before he can stop himself, peering at the painted woman over Potter’s shoulder.  He knows the name, while not intimately, from his mother making sure he was as proficient in the Black family tree as he was the Malfoys. This house being Walburga Black’s makes sense – Potter would never deign to decorate his home with something as garish as elf heads, not when Granger had that elf rights society set up – but is part of a larger mystery that he can’t wrap his mind around. Draco is getting rather tired of mysteries. Potter invited him over for drinks, and he’s half tempted to just go into the kitchen and grab them himself at this point.

Green eyes meet his as Potter turns to shoot him a sidelong annoyed glare.  Walburga Black preens from inside her frame, her chin lifting as she nods. “That is I, _Malfoy_. And _you,_ ” her eyes harden as she narrows them to a glare directed at Potter, “You’ve some nerve, boy. Are mudbloods not enough for you? Is merely tarnishing this home as a filthy half-blood not good enough? My excuse for a son was no different. Must you desecrate it further by bringing in _all kinds_ of freaks?” Her voice is beginning to rise into that deranged scream again, and Draco can feel his stomach turn to water. Potter will no doubt become curious about what’s wrong with Draco Malfoy, Pureblood Prodigy, and then that will lead to him being outed. As if that’s not terrible enough, being outed by a portrait, to boot. A fucking portrait. “Were my husband here, he would show you _exactly_ where freaks such as yourself belong, Salazar—“

To his surprise, Potter ignores the rant and Silences Walburga, and Draco watches in relief as her mouth moves in silent indignation. The tattered drapes are spelled closed not long after, and he’s tempted to exhale to release the tension present in his body.

“Batty old bint,” Potter mutters, shooting Draco a grin that is nearly apologetic. Not trusting himself to speak yet, he nods and contributes a noise of approval. Hair falls loose from an untidy ponytail as Potter shakes his head slowly. “What was she going on about with you, anyway?”

_Here we go._ “As if I would know. Please, Potter, that side of the Black family were fond of incest to keep the bloodline pure. It’s a miracle Sirius wasn’t a complete Hapsburg.”

“True enough.” Pain flashes in emerald eyes at the mention of the former convict, and though he laughs at the Hapsburg comparison, Draco can see that Potter is pained by the mention of the man. It’s hardly surprising especially when his own dear aunt had been the culprit in that situation; yet another reminder of how Draco himself is tainted, and how this friendly dynamic between them can never truly work. He swallows around a leaden lump in his throat and allows himself to be lead to the living room by Potter, who with false brightness declares it time for a drink.

The couch is old leather, and Draco half expects to find moths living in it, but he collapses into it anyway. Potter falls into place beside him and he moves fractionally to the side in order to put up an invisible boundary between them. Gryffindor that he is, Potter nearly looks _hurt_ by that before he presses his lips together and flicks his wand towards the kitchen, sending tumblers and a bottle of whiskey flying in. Once poured, Draco accepts his eagerly.

“As I was saying,” he begins, trailing a long finger down the side of the aged glass, “before we were rudely interrupted. How are you in possession of Walburga Black’s house? She certainly isn’t pleased by it.”

“She doesn’t have to be. It isn’t really hers anyway. Sirius left it to me.”

“Ah. That makes sense. You two were…rather close.”

“He was my godfather,” Potter says shortly, but there isn’t malice in the tone. It’s an attempt to curb grief from rising to the surface, one that Draco is familiar with. Mentally he curses himself for even bringing the topic up; clearly it causes some type of emotional distress towards Potter, who is too much of a Gryffindor to have any type of control over his emotions, much less the tight leash which Draco keeps his in check with. Comfort has never been his strong suit, as he’s always been used to being the one comforted, either by his mother or Pansy. Reassuring words and consolation are also mostly scarce in his friendships – Slytherin support systems differ greatly than that of Gryffindors. Being raised in a culture with an emphasis on appearances, loyalty to the family, and tradition, the philosophy of choice for Draco and many of his friends has always been to simply move on without discussion. Emotion is irrational, and as such, must be locked away so that the mind isn’t clouded by it.

“It’s crazy though, isn’t it?” The non-sequitur causes Draco to glance over at the other man who is staring at the bottom of his still full whiskey.

“No,” he replies carefully, not wanting to say the wrong thing and set Potter off. He may not be fond of displays of emotion but _Potter_ definitely is. “A godfather leaving his godson a house is hardly uncalled for.”

Potter shakes his head, more strands falling loose. Draco is struck by the urge to just remove the hairband altogether and let the thick, wild hair be free. Would it be soft? _Don’t think about that_. “No, I wasn’t—that’s not what I meant. I was talking about Nott. All those potions, the Muggle pills and stuff…” bronze fingers tap out a rhythm against the side of the glass. “I never really expected it from a Pureblood?”

And oh, it’s so funny and so fucking ironic that Draco wants to laugh. He wants to laugh until tears roll down his face and tell Potter how so very wrong he is, but he doesn’t. He can’t.

“It’s kind of frowned upon in the Muggle world, drugs and all that,” Potter continues, oblivious to his guest’s mental turmoil. Emerald eyes gaze thoughtfully at the amber liquid, no doubt still marveling at how far from grace Nott fell.

_If only Potter knew the half of it._ “People choose to cope with pressure in numerous different ways. Some choose vices. There are many pressures that come with being from one of the old Pureblood families, and as a result, the children deal with it, sometimes in ways that aren’t necessarily healthy. It’s something I don’t expect you, or anyone not raised in that environment, really, to understand.” Logically, he knows he hasn’t revealed anything about himself, but it’s a topic that hits close to home and it’s more than what Draco meant to say. He takes a generous sip of his whiskey, not wincing from the burn that flares in his throat but relishing it. It’s well needed, after a day like today.

“My dad was a Pureblood, you know,” Potter offers with a slight inflection of defensiveness. Draco nearly rolls his eyes.

“Yes, I know. I doubt you would have experienced what I was talking about, though.” James Potter’s parenting style being anywhere remotely close to Lucius Malfoy’s is laughable. Potter might have knew his parents for less than two years but Draco is sure their love for him was never questioned or done out of necessity for an heir. He watches the amber liquid slide in his glass as he swirls it. “That seems to be exclusively a Sacred Twenty Eight privilege.”

“Er—my dad, his family. The Potter’s. We were never in that, right?”

“No,” Draco confirms before knocking back what remains of his drink, watching as Potter does the same. Warmth is beginning to blossom in his chest, and he refills his glass so he can experience more of this feeling soon. “Not for lack of trying, though.”

Potter snorts derisively, his dark eyebrows knitting together in annoyance. “Why? Because they weren’t white?”

“That’s exactly why, Potter. Ten points to Gryffindor. Fleamont Potter actually lived in England for most of his life due to the Crown’s occupation in India. He was originally from Madras, now Chennai, I believe it’s referred to. His actual name was Manish but I suppose he felt Fleamont was more Anglo. As far as I know, by that point the family name was already changed to Potter. Euphemia – his wife – was born in India, though. She lived there for most of her life. When they married she changed her name from Purnima to Euphemia, as her and the rest of the Potters were adamant they had English ancestry in hopes of being accepted into the Sacred Twenty Eight.”

Growing up, the story of the Potters had featured into trivia and tales his mother told him including those of the Blacks, Parkinsons, and Malfoys. It was simply common knowledge for Draco the same way Contessa Zabini’s multitude of divorces were, but Potter is looking at him with almost reverence in those emerald eyes, as if Draco’s revealed to him depths which were previously unknown. The thought is slightly uncomfortable, as is the prospect of continuing on a discussion about the racism and bigotry of Purebloods; ideals which he’d bought into for the larger part of his life. Draco wills it in himself not to shift under the scrutiny of Potter’s gaze, but his whiskey addled body and mind betray him. Grey eyes squint in feigned confusion. “Don’t tell me you never knew this?”

“No,” Potter breathes out, his eyes wide. He looks as though someone just told him the meaning of the universe and Draco resists the urge to preen in satisfaction at being the one to practically do so. “I didn’t know anything about myself, growing up. Not until I turned eleven. My aunt and uncle, they used to tell me my parents died in a car crash.” Potter knocks back the rest of his drink, the wince evident in his posture. Draco finds it hard to tear his eyes away from the bobbing of his throat. “They…didn’t really like me much.”

Once upon a time Draco might have said, ‘I can hardly blame them for that’ or ‘Relax, Potter, I told you a common fact, not the meaning of life’ but this situation hardly calls for it. They’re on the cusp of something, the two of them, and maybe it’s the buzz of alcohol but for once Draco wants to take the leap off the edge and into the thrill of the unknown. He takes another swig of his drink and raises an eyebrow to show he’s listening. Potter’s plush lips lilt into a rueful smile as he continues, his eyes far away. “You remember that article in the _Prophet_ years back? Maybe it was when you were in France, but—Skeeter, she somehow found out where my relatives stay and paid them a visit. I reckon she gave Vernon a pretty sum of Muggle money otherwise he’d never let her, or any of ‘my kind’ in there, but she saw my, erm, old bedroom. And everyone thought she was exaggerating when she wrote about it because the cupboard’s been cleaned out, I s’pose they thought it some type of ‘from rags to riches’ story, but no. A little cupboard under the stairs, and I slept in it for the first twelve years of my life.”

Draco is sure that his mouth must be hanging open right now. If his mother were here she would playfully reprimand him and say he’s in danger of ‘catching flies’, but in the moment he doesn’t care about looking uncouth. Memories of him making fun of Potter for his ill-fitting clothes and his parents come to mind, now with the appropriate context and the knowledge of the truths those insults held. Shame wells inside him and Draco bites the inside of his cheek to stop any traitorous displays of emotion. When he speaks, his voice is thick. “Potter, I—“

“It’s fine, Draco. Really.”

Their roles are reversed, with Draco taking the emotional position of Potter, and it’s discomforting. He’s ill-suited for these touching displays of emotion. Still, the revealing of one deep secret calls for that of another, and Draco swallows his nerves. It’s now or never.

He steels himself, one hand clutching his glass of whiskey like his life depends on it and the other’s fingers digging into the soft material of his trousers. “I wasn’t completely honest with you, when you asked why I went to study potioneering in France.”

Potter sits silently, pinning him with the brilliant jewels of his eyes.

“Before I go too much into this…I am not looking for any sympathy, Potter, so keep in mind that you do not need to save me from myself or any other Gryffindor sentiments. I hold myself accountable for what my role was in the war and I am not trying to hint otherwise.” Draco takes a deep breath, scrubbing a hand over his face, and exhales. “After the war, Pansy, Blaise, and I used to go out a lot. We mainly stuck to Muggle London since no one knew us there and we weren’t quite welcomed in Diagon after everything that happened. It was refreshing, to be part of a crowd where no one knew your name or mistakes, or that we actually were members of a completely different society where we were essentially pariahs. I’m sure you’re familiar with that feeling, and the blessings anonymity brings.

“One such night, we went to this club. Pansy said we would be meeting a friend there.  The friend—a Muggle approached me in the loo, and he _knew_ me, and when he removed the Glamour—it was Theo. Since his father’s imprisonment Theo had been living as a Muggle. That night, he…we did alihotsy together, in the toilets of a Muggle club, and it was the best night of my life. I grew to be too dependent on it, however, and after – after an accident, I decided I had to get away. I couldn’t stay in Wiltshire, or London, or even with Pansy and Blaise. Not when everything was so fresh and everyone I knew had become walking ghosts. So I went to France, and it was amazing in all of the ways that here simply wasn’t. I almost didn’t want to come back. Sometimes I still would rather be anywhere but here, but to give in would be too easy and I can’t do that.” 

Emotions flit across Potter’s open face like fiendfyre. _His_ mouth is certainly hanging open, but Draco finds that he isn’t nervously anticipating his response; he feels lighter, having revealed such a personal aspect of himself. “Bloody hell,” Potter says eloquently, but all retorts to that die on his lips as Potter slides his hand to rest on Draco’s kneecap. One of them has shifted closer towards the other; Draco can’t be sure it wasn’t him. “I didn’t know.”

“I wasn’t expecting you to.” Draco can feel his head spinning but he knows it has nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with staring into the depths of Potter’s eyes. Eyes like that should be illegal.

“Draco…”

And maybe it’s the way Potter says his name – his given name, not surname for once – soft like a prayer, a blessing, with none of the bite or contempt he used to snarl ‘Malfoy’ with. Or maybe Draco can reflect that Macdougal had been right, and the two of them have been dancing around this – whatever it is – for a while, and it’s culminated in this, the penultimate.

“Yes.”

He doesn’t know who made the first move; it could have easily been the both of them, but kissing Harry Potter is an experience Draco doesn’t think he will ever forget. Blaise was a good kisser but there were no true emotions involved aside from the randiness of two desperate teenaged boys. Harry Potter kisses with the same intensity he applies to everything else, leaving no ounce of the inside of his mouth untouched by his hot, desperate tongue. Kissing Potter, Draco finds, comes with no reservations or inhibitions; Potter’s lips move from his own to stake claim along his jaw, nipping and sucking, and Draco releases an embarrassingly loud moan. Potter growls against his skin and licks a stripe along his neck before Draco fists a hand in that hair – _yes, just as soft as expected_ – and pulls the other man up into a heated, passionate kiss. Hands are everywhere, from grabbing the tail end of his silver plait to cupping the globe of his arse, and Draco is suddenly all too aware of the fact that his pants are very, very tight.

“Potter,” he snarls against the warm skin of the other’s neck, where it connects to the shoulder. “Where are you going with this?”

“I thought it was fairly obvious, Malfoy.” And damn him, Potter actually _tugs_ the end of his braid before moving that same hand to cup his rapidly growing arousal. Draco can’t help thrusting into his hand, desperate for more.

“Fuck you.”

“Mm, yeah.” Potter catches his lips in a kiss that ends all too quickly, biting gently as he pulls away. “That’s the plan.”

Draco lets himself be pushed down into the soft, worn leather, staring into those impossibly green eyes as Potter straddles him from above. It’s yet another unexpected turn in an already remarkable day, but Draco doesn’t mind this one. His teen self would be rather proud of this, though loathe to admit it. This angle allows him to rub his hard cock against Potter’s, an act which has him gasping and Potter letting out a breathy moan. He thrusts harder, desperate to chase that delicious friction.

Wordlessly – and Draco is glad Potter hasn’t Vanished his clothes off to the great unknown void – shirts begin to become unbuttoned and trousers tugged off. Potter shirtless is a sight to behold; scarred and tanned and _sculpted_ , Draco wonders why he never allowed himself the privilege of ogling such a sight in the Quidditch changing rooms. His muscles rip with every motion, and yet this man, this Adonis, is looking at Draco as though _he_ is some kind of Greek demigod. Green eyes widen and become filled with anguish as they take in the six thin, slightly ropey scars which cross Draco’s chest. He should have known this was coming.

“Scared, Potter?”

“No, I—“

Draco doesn’t allow him to finish, opting instead to pull him in for another kiss. The act of thrusting against one another, now with significantly less clothing, is blissful. It’s been so long that he’s partially worried he’ll come just from this, in which case he’d sooner Vanish himself. Moaning against his lips, Potter seems to have gotten the hint, and when he pulls away avoids glancing at Draco’s chest. Those wasn’t quite what Draco was going for, but if it means they’ll get to indulge in whatever this is as opposed to have a heart to heart about the horrors of sixth year, he isn’t complaining.

He watches as Potter tugs away his boxers and tosses them to the floor. His cock stands flushed, proud and jutting, and Draco nearly salivates like a virgin Hufflepuff at the sight. Potter notices his glazed eyes and sends him a very Slytherin-worthy smirk before tugging away Draco’s. Draco’s cock is pink-flushed and beading fluid at the tip, and Potter bends his head to press an agonizing kiss to the tip of it.

“Potter, please…”

And then Potter is sliding away from him and making himself comfortable _on his fucking knees_. Draco is going to hyperventilate, he really is, because this is too goddamn much. Potter smiles, slow and predatory, before fucking _spitting in his hand_ and coating the length of Draco’s cock with it. He gives one slow, drawn out lick along the underside before engulfing his length in those perfect lips.

“ _Fuck_!” Pale hands entangle themselves in a tangle of black hair, pulling mercilessly. Rather than shy away, Potter seems spurred on by it and bobs his head vigorously. “Merlin above, where did you learn—ah—to do that?” Draco’s breaths come in quick pants, and he squeezes his eyes shut, a whimper escaping when Potter pulls away with a _pop_.

“Look at me.”

And, well, Draco isn’t in the position to very well deny Harry Potter now. How the tables have turned, how the mighty have fallen.

He looks Potter in the eyes the whole time, grey on green, and it’s so much better than a club hookup in the toilets with a stranger who can only ever be a pale imitation of Harry fucking Potter. Potter seems to know exactly what Draco wants; he remains in his position while Draco’s hips buck of their own accord, thrusting into his mouth. A finger trails down from his balls to his entrance and Draco gasps as it teases the puckered hole, circling around playfully.

“You fucking bastard.”

With one last cheeky grin, Potter moves away from Draco’s cock (laughing at the whimper that follows) and buries his face between his legs. Cool air blows over his entrance and the fist in Potter’s hair tightens in anticipation. Potter meets his eyes one last time and then, with none of the slow teasing of before, proceeds to bury his tongue in the tight ring of muscle.

Draco is a mess as the length of Potter’s tongue probes at him; a shrieking, incomprehensible mess, wriggling over the other man’s tongue wantonly. He hasn’t been this free in years, if ever; the experiments between he and Blaise were never _this_ intense and even so this act remained uncharted territory for them, with neither willing to go quite that far. In the black and white mind of teenage boys, sucking one another off and handjobs weren’t gay, but a tongue in the arsehole was an act that was undeniably homosexual. Now, Draco doesn’t think he’s felt this amount of pleasure, this flying freeness, in forever, not since—

He locks the thought away. It has no place, not here, not now.

“Potter,” he gasps out, grinding against the ministrations of the other man’s tongue, “I’m not—not going to last.”

Potter responds by way of a chuckle against him. He bites into the soft flesh of Draco’s thigh, a mark that will surely bruise, and resumes his previous actions, this time quicker. His hand speeds up the motion of stroking Draco’s cock, and Draco squeezes his eyes shut as he feels himself about to give into the pleasure.

Looking into those eyes is still an act too intimate.

He comes with a loud, keening cry, bright spots appearing behind his eyes. Potter gives one last, too-sensitive lick before pulling away and casting a cleaning charm over both of them.

Draco can’t help but notice. “You didn’t—“

“Don’t worry about me,” Potter grins wickedly as he shucks on his boxers and trousers. “S’fine. I’ll be alright.”

He manages a stiff nod. Suddenly he’s overcome by what they’ve just did – the act they’ve just committed together – and eye contact with Potter is a dangerous, perilous thing. He clears his throat. “Right.” Monosyllabic answers are safe and distant and cannot be misconstrued.

“D’you want to get some takeaway, maybe? There’s a good curry shop by me.” Potter looks strangely hopeful as he smiles up at him, and it’s too much.

Draco pulls his pants on and flicks his wand over the buttons of his shirt, sighing as the material fits together once again. “I’m afraid I can’t. I should really be going now, I have some business to attend to.”

“Oh.” Potter frowns in a way that begs to be kissed, and perhaps would, if Draco was that person. If he was that type of man. “See you at pub night tomorrow?”

Fuck. Pub night. He’d forgotten all about that. What had once seemed like a fun invitation now has _connotations_ attached to it, _expectations_ which Draco cannot and will not allow himself to meet. “Perhaps, if I have the time,” he eludes by way of answer and moves brusquely over to the Floo, avoiding bright green orbs as he does so. “If not, I’ll see you at the office Monday, Potter.”

The green flames engulf him. Like every other time, Draco doesn’t realize the consequences of his actions until he’s already committed the acts. This dalliance with Potter is no different. All he can make sure of now is that it doesn’t happen again.

*

“And Daphne let it slip to me that Millie apparently told _her_ that—Draco? Draco, darling, are you listening?”

Astoria’s melodic voice brings him back to reality, away from thoughts straying from the mundane conversation and full of emerald eyes. Draco withholds a sigh and raising his champagne flute, tips the rest back down his throat. “Forgive me if I seem distant, Astoria, work has been quite draining.” _And I do not want to be here_.

A frown nearly pulls at her plump lips before she lilts them into a sweet smile. “I’m sure it is. Consulting with Aurors must be a difficult job.” 

He nods in agreement and they sit in silence, quietly tucking into their food as a waiter arrives to refill the empty flute. The plan for joining Potter at pub night had, predictably, not gone to fruition. Instead, Draco has found himself portkeying to a restaurant in wizarding Paris with Astoria, trying not to get sick as building rotates in a slow, circular motion to give a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower. Father had been proud when Draco told him his plan of taking his future fiancée out tonight; mostly, he suspects Lucius is happy he didn’t have to tell him to do it or plan the outing himself.

Astoria Greengrass is a lovely girl. She’s witty and sharp enough to keep a conversation going. She’s undeniably beautiful; her chestnut hair curls around her slim, heart shaped face, and large, doe-like eyes gaze at him adoringly. Her black, v-neck gown leaves little to the imagination and each time she leans forward- which is a lot over the course of this dinner, to the point of making Draco nearly uncomfortable – he can catch a glimpse of ample cleavage. She is, undeniably, a dream that many men lust after. It is a fact that he knows Astoria knows.

If only he could be attracted to her. It would be so easy.

“Draco, darling,” she begins, placing her hand over his. He marvels at how small it is in comparison to his. “My father approves of your family, quite a lot. Rightfully so I’d say.”

“Does he.”

A gentle squeeze. “Yes. He believes our future to be rather promising.”

Words that hide a thousand implications below the surface. Draco bets the Greengrass patriarch does find it promising.

“And what do _you_ want, Astoria? Surely a lady as beautiful as yourself has many prospects. Why limit yourself to me, when I am from a disgraced family?”

She smiles up at him coquettishly through heavy lashes. “Despite your family’s…misgivings as of late,” she says lightly, carefully, “I do believe you will live to make a comeback. Society may change, yet other aspects remain timeless, especially with all you have to offer.”

Draco hums in response. Astoria is right, he knows, and what his family has to offer from their vaults is largely why his father walks free today. The Malfoy name may not hold the respect it once did but they still have plenty of connections and more than enough gold to throw at anyone who they require a favor from. It’s a thought that brings little comfort. “You didn’t answer my question,” he points out, swirling champagne around in his flute.

“I am content with what my father has in store for me, especially if it means being blessed with your company,” is Astoria’s smooth, purring response. Draco wonders if she’s ever said anything true so far in their time together, or if everything is simply an act, the proper dialogue needed for whatever part she’s playing for her father and herself.

He doubts what Astoria really wants is _him_ anyway. The Greengrasses are new money; a fact that Pansy used to thumb her nose at during their school years whenever Daphne tried to ingratiate herself with their established circle. While being well off, they aren’t quite up to par with families of old such as the Malfoys and the Parkinsons and even the Bulstrodes. That Astoria sees him as a means to an end of reaching the Malfoy vaults and making a better name for herself in the process is hardly surprising; were Pansy here, she would probably refer to the girl as a ‘ _sniveling social climber’._

Draco nearly chuckles at the thought and quickly tucks into his duck to avoid doing so. Astoria’s smile doesn’t waiver until she brings a bite of her own lobster linguine to her mouth, and Draco is glad for the ensuing silence even in its oppression. That this can be looked at as a preview into the rest of his life is not beyond him, but in the face of everything he finds he has little choice to do anything else. What happened with Potter – an act which despite his best efforts he cannot simply ignore and look past like he’s done with everything else – was a mistake committed in the heat of the moment. He’s only human and Potter is terribly attractive in that annoyingly effortlessly way of his, and he made a very human error. To think that there is a future of any kind brewing between Potter and him – or any other man for that matter – is idealistic thinking. Draco is past idealism at this point, and if he has to enter this new chapter of his life with resignation, then so be it; the expectations thrust upon him are far from new, anyway.

After paying for the cheque they leave the restaurant, Astoria balancing on Draco’s arm in a way reminiscent of most Pureblood trophy wives. The thought of how many times she must have been forced to practice this persona flashes through his mind, and he finds that he feels a stab of pity for her; she’s forced into this as much as he is, except Astoria seems to be looking on the bright side of things – such as her betrothed’s family having an unlawful amount of money. The air in Paris is balmy when they step out, and Draco immediately casts a refreshing Cooling Charm on them both. Their Portkey in the shape of an old soft drink can sits shrunken in Draco’s trouser pocket, ready to activate in three minutes and take them back to England.

He feels the warm brush of Astoria’s lips on his cheek and looks down to see her gazing up at him, a wicked gleam in her eye. She brushes her nose against the smooth of his face, and the sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant. “Would you like to come visit my family’s Guernsey estate before we go back? We’ll be leaving each other so soon otherwise.” Her breath is hot against his ear, her lips nearly touching it. Draco can feel rather than see her mouth turning up into a slow, seductive smile.

He disentangles herself from her and lays a firm hand on her shoulder to establish distance. “No, thank you,” he replies stiffly, feeling quite awkward and praying to Merlin and Salazar above for the Portkey to active already. “I really am quite tired tonight, I’m afraid.”

This is a glimpse into the rest of his life, and it really couldn’t be more tragic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was like my second ever time Writing About Sex so i hope it wasnt terrible lmao. alternatively titled, 'the one where draco and harry take 1000 steps forward and 5000 back'


	9. Chapter 9

**“A final comfort that is small, but not cold: the heart is the only broken instrument that works.”**

**-T.E. Kalem**

Monday morning sees Harry arriving to the Ministry on time for once, having woken up early after adhering to a normal sleep schedule. He’s even had time to get his morning coffee without the knowledge of his lateness bearing down on his conscience. Being on time for work is a spectacular feat for Harry, especially on days like today, when he doesn’t want to be here; that in itself isn’t necessarily new these days, but after the shitty weekend he’s had – which was, on the surface, actually entirely pleasant save for the decidedly unpleasant emotions brewing within him – Harry wants nothing more than to stay in bed and watch EastEnders, or move to Iceland and become a sheep herder. Either situation works.

Ever since the _incident_ between him and Draco occurred, the blonde had distanced himself considerably and in doing so, regressed in any progress the two had been making towards what some may call friendship. He’d sent Harry a short owl informing him that he couldn’t make it to Pub Night due to ‘personal business’, a lie which Harry found himself complaining about to his friends after three (or maybe five) pints.  Hermione and Ron were unaware that Draco Malfoy was even supposed to be joining them and so exchanged multiple Looks to each other throughout the evening. Hermione treated Harry with more sympathy than usual which while nice, meant he knew that he’d have to deal with the inevitable questions soon, not to mention inform her what had went on between him and the trio’s former school nemesis.

“Auror Potter!” The booming voice of Robards shakes Harry out from any thoughts relating to abysmal Pub Nights and emotionally repressed blonde gits. Stifling a groan he turns his head in Robards’ direction, noting with dismay that his boss looks far from pleased. He doesn’t love his job, but getting fired will be the cherry on top of the shit-cake that has been his week.

“Yes, sir?” He lets his hand drop from where it was previously reaching to turn the handle of his office door.

“Great breakthrough on the potions case,” there’s grim approval laden in Robards’ voice though he remains stone faced. Harry knows his boss by now and braces himself for whatever it is that will come next. “Macdougal is interrogating the suspect now. As it’s come to my attention that the Nott’s haven’t been alerted yet of their sons passing, make sure you see to that and soon.”

Ah, there it is.

Harry’s eyebrows furrow as he tries to think of how to translate his emotions into words. Delicate words which will not upset his boss. Unfortunately, delicacy and politics have never been his strong suits. “Sir, I—with all respect, I think I’d be better off interrogating the suspect. I have a personal history with the Notts, you know, with Theodore’s father trying to kill me.” Delivering the news of a loved one’s death to their family is hardly an easy task; some react with heart-wrenching sobs, others in a desensitized manner Harry recognizes as shock, and at times, violently. He isn’t afraid of Nott, but he’d like to avoid the possibility of a near death experience.

Robards remains impassive. “Empathy is not one of Morag’s strong points. She’s an asset in the interrogation room, not with handling a weepy family member. Besides,” the ends of his burly mustache twitch as his lips tug into a cold smile. “I’ve received a complaint that you didn’t remain at the scene of the deceased, so consider this a way of making it up to me.”

“Sir, I—“

“You’ll go is what you’ll do, Auror Potter.” Robards moves to turn away and return to the sanctity of his office, just as an idea pops into Harry’s head and he knows he has to try one last thing.

“What about Malfoy?” he blurts and immediately curses himself for not making it sound more eloquent. “He can’t just stay in the office, sir, we have classifieds in there.” Even as he says it Harry knows that it is hardly a substantial argument, and he resists the appealing urge to just Floo it back home to the safety of his bedroom.

“Then take him with you, I’ll approve it. His presence will make sure they won’t just up and slam the door on you. There you go – your problem with the Notts, resolved. Get to it.” Robard’s mustache twitches once more in amusement before he strides off, muttering something about being a miracle worker under his breath. Harry sighs. One problem may have been resolved, but a thousand others still remain.

*

The Nott estate is a sprawling country house nestled away in Cornwall. The pleasant smell of fresh grass breezes past Harry’’s nose, and there’s a faint waft of the nearer seaside as well. It’s very picturesque; he can easily picture this as the setting of one of those classic romances Hermione likes as a guilty pleasure. It’s far from Malfoy Manor, though, and Harry wonders when the Manor became a point of comparison for anything at all. It isn't like he got a grand tour of the place last time he was there or had the chance to stop and appreciate the beauty. 

“No peacocks,” he observes as he and Malfoy make their way up to the front steps. Malfoy makes no indication that he’s heard Harry except for a noncommittal ‘hm’ of agreement or, more likely, contempt. Referring to him once again as Malfoy as opposed to Draco may be petty but Harry feels it’s well deserved; the blonde has avoided eye contact as well as nearly every other form of communication with him all morning, and when he was informed that the two of them would be going to inform Theodore Nott’s family of his death together, Malfoy looked at Harry as though he had dropped a dungbomb in the office. Which was fine, really. Completely fine. If Malfoy wants to be immature and petty, well, two can play at that game. _That isn’t something to be proud of, Harry,_ chides the voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Hermione. Harry knows it isn’t, but knowing and caring are two separate battles.

Malfoy stands beside him as they make their way up the front steps, and Harry notices the deep blue of his silk dress shirt, a color that contrasts nicely with the paleness of his skin and hair. The shirt is tight enough to accentuate his lithe form as are his black slacks and Harry has to brush away memories of what hides beneath the clothing. Malfoy makes no indication that he’s aware of Harry’s staring except for a slight stiffness to his posture and the clearing of his throat; embarrassed but not about to show it, Harry tears his eyes away to look down at his own choice of outfit. Auror robes, a Henley shirt, and jeans. All effort into his appearance has gone out the window and Harry can’t find it in himself to care. _What a pair we must look._

The silence is deafening. Small talk is painful but at this point Harry will take even the arguments of old over the quiet. He and Malfoy have always orbited one another in some way, either in enmity or—something else; there has always been a flame of some sort heating their interactions towards one another in red-hot anger or _whatever_ it is that lurks on the other side of the spectrum. Harry supposes Ron was right in his earlier observation of there having always been something undefinable between him and Malfoy. Something like an attraction, which his teenage (and adult) brain misconstrued as a mere fixation. It certainly explains why being essentially ignored by Malfoy is bothering him. Harry can’t even remember being this troubled after the breakup with Oliver.

A pointed cough from Malfoy sends Harry glaring up at the other man, biting the urge to retort by telling him to get that cough checked. Doing so will only lead to an argument and while Harry is desperate to communicate with the other man in any way, hexing your one-time lover in front of the home of the parents of the deceased is something Robards will _not_ be pleased with. He shoots one last glare Malfoy’s way, noting with satisfaction that the other man remains unfazed, before knocking on the door with more force than was perhaps necessary.

Grey eyes roll in derision and it’s a simple action but one that serves to push Harry over the edge. “Oh, bugger—“

“What is it?”

A witch stands at the doorway, which in his Malfoy-induced annoyance Harry hadn’t even realized was opened. Her arms are crossed over her chest as she looks at them with eyebrows raised expectantly, clearly  annoyed by the intrusion of guests. Harry fights back a blush at being caught in such a manner and flashes his Auror badge, which the woman narrows nearly-violet eyes at.

“Yes, hello. Aurors Potter and Malfoy.” It’s a lie but a small one. There’s no use going into too much depth about Malfoy’s role in the case, and if he can establish authority, maybe this will go almost painlessly. He clears his throat, ready to get to the hard part, when the woman glances at Malfoy in rapt interest. It’s a huge difference from the barely concealed glare of dislike she had bestowed upon Harry.

“Draco Malfoy?” she steps further out from the doorframe and Harry notices the roundness of her protruding stomach. At seeing him glance at the bump, she sneers and lowers a hand to rest protectively over it.

“Merula Snyde,” Malfoy nods his acknowledgement, surprise lacing his tone.

The woman – Merula, apparently – flashes her other hand at him, displaying the large rock on her small finger. Harry is reminded of the jewelry Walburga Black left behind in Grimmauld Place; obscenely large and insanely expensive must be the Pureblood style. “Merula _Nott_ , now.”

His eyebrows rise on their own accord at that. Merula can’t be much older than they are, perhaps twenty seven or twenty nine, and Nott Senior is…older than Lucius Malfoy. He gapes and thankfully, Malfoy notices before Merula does, and the ensuing scowl reminds Harry to shut his mouth.

Harry quickly remembers why the two of them are there in the first place and clears his throat once more. “We have something to inform you regarding your, er, stepson. Theodore Nott.”

Merula glances at him in distaste at being reminded by his presence and sighs as she retreats back to the doorway. She holds up a slender finger before shouting a call out for ‘Cantankerous’, who Harry can assume to be Theodore’s father. His nose wrinkles at the absurdity of the name. Evidently, normal names for Purebloods don’t exist. Merula retreats back into the house and a few seconds later, a _pop_ signals Nott’s arrival.

Cantankerous Nott is as slight as Harry remembers him, and is perhaps what Theodore would have grown to look like had he made it to old age. He glares up at Harry with open dislike, his thin lips failing to hide the same buck teeth his son suffered from. “You,” he rasps, lifting a frail, trembling finger to point in accusation. “What could _you_ possibly want? Come to try and take me away again, have you? Might I remind you, Potter, that the Ministry has released me.” His swampy eyes fall on Malfoy for the first time and Harry is surprised and more than a little confused to see that the hostility hasn’t abated. “They’ve released Lucius Malfoy as well, and I will call my solicitor if you lot want to bring me in for any more questioning. Say,” thin lips lilt into a cold smirk as he regards Malfoy, who keeps his face in the usual cold mask. “Ministry’s got you working for them, boy? Is that what this is? You struck up a deal for your freedom, hm? How pathetic, but you always were a sniveling little—“

“Er—actually, Mr. Nott, that isn’t why we came here today. We have something to inform you regarding your son, Theodore Nott.”

Nott’s scowl deepens, accentuating the many wrinkles which line his weathered face. “I don’t have a _son,_ ” he all but spits the word and Harry blinks down at the man, a crease appearing between now furrowed eyebrows.

“Theodore Nott, your son,” he tries again, hoping to jog some recognition in what may be a senile older man. This day is turning out to be more of a joke by the minute and Harry finds himself wishing Pub Night can fall on any day of the week. “He was found dead in his apartment last week.”

No emotions pass in those cold eyes and Nott shakes his head, strands of hair grey with age falling into his eyes. “I am afraid I don’t know what you are talking about, Potter, for I _don’t have a son_ ,” he all but drawls the words in cold calculation that would make Lucius Malfoy proud. “Now, get the fuck off of my property, before I call my solicitor. I believe she told me in the case of harassment, the Ministry can pay me a pretty galleon.”

The door slams in their faces and Malfoy begins his retreat with stiff, robotic movements that Harry can recognize as unease. He can’t blame him, since he’s quite shaken himself. Too many weird variables to _not_ be disturbed; Nott married to a woman half his age who is apparently pregnant with his child? Nott denying the existence of the very son Harry went to Hogwarts with? He shakes his head slowly in disbelief. It’s such an unbelievably cruel act, one that he doesn’t think even Lucius Malfoy could be capable of; on a scale of evil, Cantankerous Nott would definitely rank above the Malfoy patriarch, but still below Voldemort. It’s hard to reconcile the man Harry remembers swearing his fealty to his Lord in babbling adoration to the detached man they just dealt with, who was so nonchalant about the death of his previously only heir.

“Fucking strange, innit?” Harry doesn’t know why he’s trying again but he wants Malfoy to say something – anything – to end this wall of silence between them. He knows the encounter has left him with unease as well, but if Malfoy could only discuss it with him, maybe it will lessen. A snort escapes him; the root of all of his problems with the blonde is the distinct lack of _communication,_ in nearly every way.

Predictably Malfoy offers nothing except for another ‘hm’, this time one Harry knows is agreement. It gives him little comfort, though, and in frustration Harry kicks a pebble far more harshly than needed. It goes flying into nearby grass, landing with a soft _thunk_. Malfoy once again doesn’t spare him even a glance, his head held high and his chin lifted in its usual haughtiness as he walks beside Harry. He wants nothing more than to just grab those thin shoulders and shake some sense into Malfoy, to _demand_ to talk this all out before it only gets worse; it doesn’t have to be like this, really. It’s actually quite sad that it is.

It isn’t that Harry was expecting something but the act of being intimate with someone – because it _was_ intimate whether Malfoy is keen on accepting that or not – is one that should be treated with respect. Harry is no strange to casual sex and if that’s what the other man desired, he could have been upfront with his expectations instead of engaging in childish avoidance. The whole ‘leaving as soon as possible and pretending it never happened’ ordeal just leaves Harry feeling used; he can’t recall going about even his casual hookups in such a way. Sure, he’s far from exchanging Christmas cards with some of them, but he still would never act as though the other person doesn’t exist.

To recognize the emotion as sadness opens up a whole Pandora’s box of other things, though. Why should he care if Malfoy used him? He shouldn’t, Harry knows, not unless there’s something lurking below the surface. He quickly pushes that thought away, chuckling to himself at the sheer craziness of it. Ron may have been right about the whole attraction thing, but Harry can say with clarity that he does not _fancy_ Draco Malfoy.

*

The lift is mercifully empty once they arrive back to the Ministry and begin their journey back to the office. With the aforementioned emptiness, however, comes the tense silence that Malfoy has grown fond of. The silent treatment along with being ignored in general has never been handled particularly well by Harry; he is clingy to a fault, a ‘flaw’ that he’s well aware of. He _needs_ human interaction otherwise he reckons he’ll go mad, and luckily he has friends who support him in that. Even during his worst fights with Ron, his best mate lacked the coldness of Malfoy, instead preferring to sulk like a wounded crup until they came to an eventual truce. Sulking isn’t a Slytherin trait, though, and Harry is beginning to think that Malfoy just wants to pretend he doesn’t exist in order to avoid confronting the reality of what happened. Whatever his reasons for doing so – maybe he doesn’t want to mix business and pleasure or something equally proper – Harry will respect, but ignoring the issue won’t magically make it disappear.

“Malfoy,” he starts, noticing the way the blonde’s elegant, long fingered hands curl into themselves as though he already knows what Harry is going to ask. “Can we talk about—“

“No.”

“ _Why_?” Harry runs a hand through his hair in exasperation but the question is more along the lines of petulant. From the way Malfoy’s eyes are fluttering in disbelief, he thinks so too. He didn’t mean it to come out that way, but really, after growing up with the Dursley’s and surviving a war, Harry knows that neediness is not the worst trait he could have; he’s miraculously well adjusted, all things considered.

Malfoy uncurls his hands, lifts them to rub at his temple. He appears to be either counting to ten or perhaps offering a silent plea to whatever god he believes in. “Because I _don’t want to,_ Potter.”

“Alright,” he says finally, feeling as though he’s physically deflating. Harry leans against the wall of the lift, feeling the cool metal through his robes. “Will—will you at least tell me what’s wrong, then?”

Malfoy presses his lips together and doesn’t respond, leaving a pregnant pause to hang in the air. Harry is close to accepting the other man is going to continue on with his cold war when finally, he speaks. “Nothing is _wrong_ ,” he states finally, though the undercurrent of bitterness lacing his tone contradicts the statement. Pale eyebrows furrow together as Malfoy turns to face him, his lips curled in their trademark sneer, the coldness of his eyes reminding Harry of the Draco Malfoy from sixth year. “I happen to be perfectly fine, never better, in fact. I know that this may come as a great shock to you, Potter, considering the way the world seems to adore your every waking moment, but I’ll indulge you in a secret. You aren’t _entitled_ to any form of communication with me whatsoever. You seem to be forgetting that our acquaintanceship is only because I happen to be consulting for you on this case.”

Harry opens his mouth to retort – there’s a lot to respond to, starting with rejecting the idea that he believes he’s entitled to anything, a notion that Harry has fought hard to disprove all these years – but then the _ding_ notifying their arrival to their destined floor sounds. Malfoy storms out immediately, muttering under his breath insults that are likely directed at Harry himself, his robes billowing behind him in a way that is reminiscent of Snape. He lets Malfoy go and lingers by the lifts for a bit, wondering what in the ever loving _fuck_ just happened. Harry has never been able to navigate romance the way that he knew others were capable of – Ginny often fondly complained of his cluelessness and the rest of his ‘relationships’ before and after her could barely be called that. He hadn’t even been aware that Oliver was flirting with him until the other man had just taken the initiative and kissed him, for Merlin’s sake.

But this thing with Malfoy is different; partially because he knows Malfoy better than he knew Oliver or even Cho, nearly rivaling the intimate knowledge he has of Ginny after knowing her for half his life. Malfoy enjoyed that night, Harry knows, and even now warmth pools in his stomach and groin at remembering the way the blonde had kissed him and held onto him almost as though they were lovers before completely distancing himself and trying in vain to pretend that nothing of such a nature ever happened. If Malfoy hadn’t expressed such annoyance every time Harry tried to talk to him, he would be tempted to think the stubborn blonde had went and Obliviated himself. No, somewhere along the line after their heated encounter, Malfoy clearly began to regret it, and it makes Harry’s head spin. If only he could find it in himself to regret everything, too, then maybe this all wouldn’t be so difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i originally planned for this to be around 10-11 chapters but uhhh i think we might hit 15, lads. i've got some other ideas cookin for when this finishes too ;3


	10. Chapter 10

“It would have been a horror beyond your imagining, for you would have been left with what you brought with you: the shadow of desires of desires.”

**-T.S. Eliot**

Since that sudden, brief lapse of judgment which led to him engaging in sexual acts with Potter, followed by the subsequent incident in the lift, Draco has avoided contact with the Golden Git and stayed true to his resolve of steadily _not thinking about it_. He’s been focusing on his craft and spending time with Blaise and Pansy; he’s even squeezed Astoria into his schedule, much to Father’s delight. Of course, throughout these activities, his brain remains completely devoid of the bespectacled nuisance otherwise known as Harry Potter. Sure, sometimes the occasional memory of Potter’s lips against his makes its way past the iron fortress of his mind, and sometimes Draco catches himself thinking about how much he prefers green eyes, a latent preference previously unknown.

In the end, though, desires and memories are just that – sometimes desires are unreasonable and memories best left in the past for a reason. And while Draco can admit to himself that while he certainly doesn’t miss it, the budding civility he and Potter were developing was actually quite pleasant. His life has improved for the better since ending contact with him; Macdougal, likely sensing the contempt brewing between them in their storm of silence, has become his new lunch partner. Her presence isn’t unwelcome, as she possesses a quick wit and decent conversation skills. Now, as they sit across from each other in the bustling canteen, Draco doesn’t have time to miss Potter. Harry Potter doesn’t even cross his mind, really.

“I’ve something to discuss with you,” Macdougal says in between bites of what the canteen is calling ‘grilled salmon’ but Draco secretly thinks is completely inedible and perhaps dangerous. His eyes rise to her in interest and he notices the stress evident in her appearance; the whites of her eyes are bloodshot and her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy execution of a bun. Macdougal’s been practically living in their office, replacing sleep with Cheering Charms and instant coffee. They must be close to making a break in the case.

“Hm? Well do tell then, before I die of suspicion,” he arches an eyebrow and spears his fork into the roast potatoes on his tray. They’re crunchier than he would have liked, but Draco refuses to spend money unnecessarily on food, so they’ll do.

Macdougal rolls her eyes at his usual dry disposition. “So I’ll start by saying that prior to your arrival here, potions related cases weren’t usually treated like this. Most of the time it was just a simple write off, you know, like ‘oh the vic was found and transported to St. Mungo’s where they were pronounced DOA’ or the person stays in hospital and comes out, where either they relapse and end up being sent to hospital again or it’s a one-off. We never really took the time to figure out what they were using, how they acquired it, or who they were buying it from. Recreational use of potions is taboo in society, and it’s a very hush-hush topic.” Here, Macdougal pauses to take another bite of salmon and hums in satisfaction. “Sorry about that. But anyway, I pulled a bunch of older cases, and it turns out we had more potions related deaths and accidents than I’d originally thought. And—and it got me thinking, there’s all these divisions in the Muggle police force – which you don’t need to know much about, Malfoy, so please don’t ask – for robbery and sex crimes and here in the Auror department we’re so, so behind. It’s—it’s almost primitive, really.”

Macdougal exhales, finally, and Draco realizes that at some point during their conversation she’s leaned forward towards him in her excitement. He can practically count the sanguine vessels in her eyes signifying her exhaustion. All of the information she’s loaded on him is a lot to take in, and is overwhelming if he allows himself the time to truly think about it, because what she’s said rings true. He sets his fork down against the side of his tray, draws his eyebrows together. “You want to establish a department for potions-related offenses, is what you’re saying.”

Dark brown, almost black hair tumbles loose from the haphazard up-do as Macdougal nods excitedly. Draco is reminded of the wildebeest nest that resides on the head of someone who will not be named and bites back a scowl. “Yes. It makes sense, yeah? There will be organization for the cases, justice and aid for the victims, advances in potioneering, as well as you, of course.”

Draco’s face remains blank. Macdougal squints muddy eyes at him quizzically. “Come on, Malfoy, you’re good at what you do. You can’t for a second think that Robards wouldn’t offer you a job if I were to take this proposition to him.”

He laces his finger together in his lap, too shocked by the conversation to even smirk at his coworker’s praise. “And Robards would create this department for us, if we desired?”

Macdougal chuckles dryly as she stands up and Vanishes the remains of her platter away. “Oh Malfoy,” she coos, reaching over to pinch his cheek. Draco scoffs and dodges the worst of it, but her fingertips graze the side of his cheek anyway. They’re cold to the touch. “How naïve of you to assume I need your input on this in any capacity. I just wanted to tell you about it should you be approached with this offer. I’m going to talk to Robards regardless.”

She flashes him a feral grin full of teeth before practically running off, presumably to Robard’s office, and leaving Draco to stare dumbly after her. He can only marvel about what his life is these days; he remembers Mother telling him legends about the Greek gods when he was younger, stories of how the world was when magic was kept more secretive than it is today. The mortals of ancient Greece believed their lives were engineered for the amusement of gods. Now, Draco can’t help but wonder if that’s true, and if Salazar and Godric are among the clouds somewhere, laughing at him. He wouldn’t be surprised.

*

The Ministry restrooms possess horrendous fluorescent lighting that does no favors for Draco’s pale skin. Glancing at himself in the mirror, he frowns in dissatisfaction as he observes that the lights make him appear to be washed out; worse than that, were those _pores_ beginning to spread about his cheeks and nose? Draco leans impossibly close to the shoddy mirror to examine the traitorous orifices marring previously unblemished skin before the heavy _thud_ of the door being thrown open has him instinctively retreating. Through the mirror’s reflection he can see that the intruder is none other than fucking Potter, and Draco straightens reflexively, keeping his eyes trained on the other man’s reflection. Potter looks absolutely _livid_ as his brilliant eyes dart around once before resting on Draco, and in one whirlwind moment Potter crosses the threshold, pins Draco against the cold tile wall of the bathroom. Warning bells are ringing incessantly in his mind and he can’t help but remember last time he was in a situation like this with Potter; the scars on his chest make it an unforgettable event.

Draco schools his face to a blank mask in order to ensure none of the mounting fear is evident. “Malfoy,” Potter growls, actually _growls,_ through clenched teeth. “What the actual fuck is this, Malfoy?” There’s the sound of rustling, and then Potter is flapping paper of some sort in his face. A line appears between Draco’s brows as he takes hold of it – he hadn’t even realized Potter was holding anything – and scans whatever it is that has Potter behaving like a madman. Immediately, he can feel his stomach sink, his free hand digging into the sides of his slacks so as to not clench completely to a fist.

_ON TO GREENER PASTURES: SOURCES SAY THAT “REFORMED” DEATH EATER DRACO MALFOY HAS FOUND THAT THE GRASS IS GREENER ON THE OTHER SIDE WITH FIANCEE, ASTORIA GREENGRASS_

The headline is tacky and reeks of Skeeter’s shoddy excuse for ‘journalism’. It gets worse, though, as Draco stares at the photographs of himself and Astoria taken that night in Paris. They paint a romantic portrait, with Astoria leaning up to whisper in his ear and Draco keeping his arm wrapped around her; in the absence of decent lighting, the curve of his lips can even be mistaken for a smile. Going to the press is certainly not his father’s idea, but he doesn’t trust Osmund Greengrass as far as he can throw him – Skeeter probably paid him a pretty galleon to get _that_ story. It’s far from front page fodder but Draco resents having it in the _Prophet_ at all. He and Astoria aren’t even engaged yet. The thought of laughing at the absurdity of all this is tempting.

“Why, I believe that’s my fiancée and I, Potter. How considerate of you to care about our affairs,” his normal drawl has a strained quality to it, as one would when being pinned against the wall by an angry Harry Potter. Potter’s grip on his shirt tightens, his thick eyebrows drawing so close together they could nearly be one.

Potter’s (kissable) mouth opens to retort but is interrupted by someone who Draco recognizes as Michael Corner exiting the stall ahead. Corner eyes them warily before smartly making the decision to scurry off. Potter presses his lips together and with a flick of his wrist locks the door, and then proceeds to cast a silencing spell so powerful that Draco swears it’s akin to the sound of wasps buzzing.

“Your fiancée,” he echoes in disbelief, those gems he calls eyes narrowing to serpentine slits. “You’re fucking _engaged,_ Malfoy,” he spits the word from his lips as though it’s poison inside his mouth. Draco hopes that none of the spittle is landing on him. He’d rather die.

“Yes, Potter, I am. Now do you mind allowing me some space here, or are you keen to reenact the pleasant experience that was our last time in a restroom together?”

A myriad of emotions flicker over Potter’s face – hurt being one of them – but he steps back, looking almost guilty as he does so. “You—you were _engaged_ when we—for fuck’s sake,” he hisses, running a hand through the nest of his hair.

“I see your observational skills are astute as ever.” Draco is pleased to find that his voice still holds the usual arrogant lilt, despite the fact that he’s racking his brain to think of ways he can Apparate within the Ministry somehow.

Potter laughs mirthlessly, shakes his head as he does so. “I can’t believe this,” he says at last, eyes focusing on something behind Draco. “I really can’t believe this.”

Annoyance flares up in him at once – who does Potter think he is, trying to play the victim now? Draco crosses his arms as he regards the man in front of him in the disdainful way he’s perfected over the years. “And just what were you expecting, Potter? For us to fall in love and marry and adopt a horde of Kneazles together? You’re more deluded than I thought, then, because even a complete fool could see that it was nothing but a casual fuck.” _That’s all it ever_ can _be_. It was an enjoyable experience, but one he must ultimately move past, and what better way to sever the tie that remains than with cruelty? Callous indifference has always been his armour, and there’s no reason to stop now.

That hurt look crosses Potter’s face again – he’s openly gaping now – before he closes his mouth and shakes his head again, eyeing Draco in bemusement. “You—are you fazed by this at all, Malfoy, or are me and your fiancée just pawns in whatever twisted game you’re playing at? Do you even love her?”

Draco scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.” The words escape his mouth before he can stop them and all he can do is watch Potter’s reaction, watch as the green eyes widen in a way that would be almost comical under different circumstances before understanding dawns on him.

“Then why are you doing this?”

Feigning indifference, Draco brushes invisible dust off the front of his slacks and heaves a sigh. “Are we quite done here, because I have pressing matters of actual importance I should attend to.”

“It’s not what you want, is it? Did Mummy and Daddy sit you down and tell you that you’re to marry a Pureblood princess as heir, or some shit like that? After everythi—“

Draco whirls around to face Potter, cutting off whatever the rest of his stupid sentence was. He’s sure a vein in his neck is probably throbbing. “I don’t give a hippogriff’s arse if my mother saved your sorry life in the Forest, Potter, but that does _not_ give you the right to speak about my parents that way. Nothing does,” he interrupts, hissing through clenched teeth.

Potter has the grace to look abashed, and when he goes to speak, appears calmer somewhat. “Draco,” he says softly, holding Draco’s gaze, and fuck the use of his given name is _nearly_ enough to unravel him. If he was a stronger man, it would be enough. “All I’m saying is that you’ve followed in their footsteps enough. Why aren’t you allowing yourself the opportunity to be happy? Or do something _you_ want?”

“Am I supposed to be happy with you, then?”

“I didn’t say that, did I? You don’t even love your fiancée, Malfoy!”

“Don’t presume to know anything about my relationship, Potter.”

A sardonic smile curls Potter’s lips as he laughs in a way that is reminiscent of a madman. “What Lucius wants Lucius gets, doesn’t he? I s’pose it doesn’t matter that he sold you and Narcissa out to Voldemort and them when you were sixteen, hm?”

Draco can feel himself rapidly losing patience for this, and thus increasing the risk of abandoning his composure to the wind as he so often does during arguments with Potter. “What is this really about? Don’t pretend that you have any interest in my personal life. Is our Hero upset that I’m not bowing to my knees in front of you, begging for your attention the way the rest of your sycophants do? Or was saving the world not enough for Saint Potter, and now you feel the need to make me your next charity case? As though I’m not fucking indebted to you enough.”

The git looks stricken by the accusation and quickly reaches out a hand to squeeze his shoulder in reassurance, but Draco brushes it away harshly. “Draco, all I want for you is to be happy, to make your own choices—“

“Choices?” Draco cuts in coldly, his trademark sneer in place. “How bold of Saint Potter to lecture _me_ on choices, and making myself happy, when you can’t even bring yourself to leave the job that you show barely a shred of interest in. Such _cheek_.”

Potter’s mouth gapes open and closed rapidly like a fish, or a particularly ugly grindylow. His face contorts in anger once again, those plush lips pulling back in a leonine snarl. “Don’t talk about my job, Malfoy, when you don’t know the first thing about it,” he warns in a low tone. Draco laughs cruelly.

“Much like you don’t know about my own situation, Potter? I should have saw that your ego wouldn’t let you see your own hypocrisy.”

“It isn’t the same at all!” Potter explodes, his brown face becoming a splotchy array of reds and maroons in anger. Hot, boiling anger that Draco can feel thick and tense in the magic presently in the air, emanating from Potter like wild eklectricity – or whatever the Muggles call it. He considers their luck at having this discussion in the Ministry, where protection charms are abundant everywhere; Draco recalls Potter’s powerful magic destroying windows a few times at Hogwarts. “My job is in no way similar to your situation at all, Malfoy. I can’t just up and leave if I’m unhappy – which I’m not – because of a thing called _commitment_. I am _committed_ to my job, not that you would know anything about that, judging by how you don’t even care about breaking a commitment to your fiancée.”

Draco wants to scream, to shake the insufferable git in front of him and scream exactly how he feels at him; of course, he’d never allow or forgive himself if he stooped to such lows. So he settles on glowering, his jaw rigid, and his skin likely an unbecoming, angry red. “You don’t understand, Potter,” he says, voice even.

He watches as Potter inhales, licks his lips. “What?” he urges at long last. “What don’t I understand?” And it’s so much like sixth year again and Draco feels like he’s sixteen and too proud to beg anyone to help him that it’s just too much to deal with right now, in a Ministry bathroom, with memories of a war that should have killed him boiling to the surface.

“You don’t understand,” he repeats, voice growing harder, every passing syllable bringing out intents of cruel taunts he hasn’t used since adolescence, “and I suppose you never will, Potter, because some things require knowledge of parental relationships...an area of expertise I know _you_ of all people are sorely lacking in.”

He can feel the anger vibrating off of Potter from the (admittedly needlessly) cruel retort; can see the fury in his eyes and shock and betrayal flitting across his face. Potter appears to be as angry as Draco himself was that September evening on the eve of their sixth year, when he broke Potter’s nose on the train to Hogwarts. He wonders if Potter is capable of harming him now; he would deserve it anyway.

Potter stalks forward and Draco stiffens reflexively, ready for any hex or physical blows to be thrown his way. He’s dealt with a punch from Potter once, but he was drunk, and while sober he’s sure the pain will be twofold. But Potter merely stares at him, a strange mix of anger and disappointment evident on his face.

“I thought you’d changed,” he admits through gritted teeth, “and I’d convinced everyone that you did, as well. But I see you’re still the same Malfoy. You’re still that same pathetic sixteen year old you were back then, cowering under Daddy’s thumb and doing whatever Lucius wants to stay in his good graces.” A bitter smile curls Potter’s lips and Draco can feel himself trembling, not in fear but in Merlin be damned _hurt_ at what Potter is saying, words that will likely haunt him in his nightmares to come. “Except you’re a man now and it’s even more pathetic than it was back then, ‘cos at least you had an excuse. You’re still the same coward you’ve always been, Draco.”

Somehow Potter saying his given name is even worse, and he flinches, his nerves jittery. Draco can feel his face draining itself of color. “I’m not,” he rasps, eyebrows meeting together, and god this all feels like a bad nightmare. Draco feels like he’s seeing the world underwater, like he’ll pinch himself and he’ll wake up. “I’ve changed. I have.”

“No, Malfoy. You haven’t.” Potter almost sounds _saddened_ by the admission and he doesn’t spare Draco a second glance as he leaves him alone and trembling against the tiled wall of the Ministry bathroom. Draco waits for a beat, lips parted still and the sweat he didn’t even feel prior now beading dry on his forehead.

He has to get out of here, that much he knows. He has to leave _right now_ before he has a bloody fucking breakdown in the middle of the loo. This day has been abysmal, but it will not end up that far gone.

With leaden legs, Draco pushes himself off from the coolness of the wall, knowing exactly where he needs to go.

*

Draco stumbles out of Pansy and Blaise’s fireplace, not bothering to make a disparaging remark about the soot accumulation in their chimney; he can’t even find it in himself to clean the dirt off of his pants. Pansy is sprawled on the couch clad in a lacy red baby-doll, a fashion magazine hovering above her.

“Dray, darling!” she trills, her eyes still glued to the robes on the glossy magazine page. “I’m glad you’re here. Help me decide between these two robes, babe, and then we can have some drinks while we wait for Blaise.”

At his lack of response, Pansy turns to look at him, her dark eyes widening as she takes in his appearance. She’s up and approaching him at once, her painted red lips twisting into a scowl as she reaches out to place a hand on his cheek. “What happened.” It isn’t a question but a demand for Draco to divulge to her exactly what is going on and the potential names of who hurt him; his friendship with Pansy has always had a current of protection between the both of them, and Pansy has only tightened that protection since the end of the war. He’s grateful for her; she’s his oldest, most treasured friend, and Draco would even hex Blaise without a doubt if he hurt her.

He swallows, throat bobbing. Pansy watches him with hawk-like eyes, her eyebrows arched expectantly. It’s an expression that’s at odds with her current state of dress, and with Draco stumbling almost drunkenly out of the fireplace, he reckons they could grace the cover of one of those trashy witch romance novels. “It’s Potter,” he sighs at last, the words coming out strangely foreign, as though it isn’t him speaking. Everything still has a dreamlike quality to it except he’s all too aware that this is real. “The _Prophet_ printed an article about Astoria and I. Potter saw it.”

Pansy _accios_ a silky bathrobe towards her and shrugs into it, the confusion evident in her face as she tightens it around her. Her lips tug in distaste at Astoria’s name. “I’m not following, love.”

 _Fuck_. He forgot that he never told Pansy and Blaise about the Incident which occurred between Potter and him. Holding on to the precious last bits of his composure that remain, Draco lifts his chin and examines his fingernails lackadaisically. “Potter didn’t approve of it.” In the hopes of having Pansy catch on to _why_ Potter didn’t approve he knows he’s being what some may call deliberately obtuse; but it’s easier than explaining why, exactly, Potter was so angered by it.

“While I commend Potty for disapproving of Greengrass, I don’t see why this has you so shaken, Dray.” Salazar, if only Pansy could be a Legilimens too. With frightening accuracy as though she _had_ been reading his own thoughts (which is ridiculous because Draco knows she’s just annoyingly perceptive when it comes to him) she cocks her head, regarding him curiously. “There’s more to it, isn’t it.”

Draco only nods, not trusting himself to speak right now, because there’s pressure building in his throat threatening to burst the dam that he’s worked so hard to build. Pansy sighs and rubs a reassuring hand on his shoulder as a bottle of elf-made wine and two glasses float in, filling themselves immediately. “Drink up love, it’ll be fine.”

He makes to move but his knees buckle and suddenly he finds the white fur of Pansy’s carpet appearing closer and closer to him. With a shrill ‘Draco!’ Pansy reaches out a hand in an attempt to steady him, but ultimately ends up pulled down alongside him into the shaggy furriness of her carpet. She huffs but says nothing, not even to push him to elaborate on him and Potter, only curls herself around him and rests her head on his shoulder.

“Pans,” he chokes out, not trusting himself to meet his eyes and crumble further under the warmth he knows he will find there. “I fucked up. Whatever Potter and I had, I—I fucked it up.”

And maybe it’s the events of the day catching up with him, but Draco can feel himself beginning to unravel; like Pandora’s box all of the memories and emotions he’s locked away for so long are swimming to the surface, his body expelling them through blurred vision and silent tears. To feel so freely, to _feel_ anything at all is a beautiful and terrible aspect of being human that Draco realizes he’s nearly forgotten. The streams of wetness on his face tell him he’s crying but he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of it; not now, not after so long.

Pansy envelopes him into an embrace as he sobs against her shoulder, probably making a mess of her robe in the process, but if he is she doesn’t complain. She alternates between stroking his hair and rubbing his back, occasionally pressing a sticky, lipsticked kiss to his temple. “It’ll all be okay, little love,” she reassures him in a murmur. “Things will be alright soon, babe, you’ll see.”

As Draco chokes out another sob muffled by the smooth silk of her robe, he can only hope she’s right.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, please leave kudos and comments if you enjoyed! always open for concrit as well <3


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